Black Bear Behind Bars
Curtis Kingsmith
CHAPTER ONE
What the Bible Says About Whitebois
When the guard said my cellmate was a man named 'Wendell White', I was relieved -- it
sounded like an accountant done up on embezzlement charges. I thought it'd be some prissy whiteboi I
could control.
So my jaw dropped a little when I stepped inside the tiny cell and saw Thumper, as he
preferred to be known. He was a burly black man in his mid-forties, with the body of an athlete, no
longer perfectly carved but still bristling with power underneath inked, callused skin. He looked at me
and nodded.
"You got the top bunk, youngblood," is all he said, his voice deep and rumbling. He returned to
the Bible he was reading.
I moved my stuff into my bunk and silently laid down. Not wanting to attract attention on my
first day, I simply stared at the ceiling and kept a tough mien on my face.
Thumper began doing push-ups, loudly, no doubt hoping to bring my attention to how much
bigger and stronger he was than me. I knew how prison worked, and I was more than prepared to
defend myself. You don't have to be huge to show a nigga you mean business. Thumper had the thick
barrel-shaped body of a boxer, which I later learned is what he was before coming to Brutewood. His
great muscles shifted with every thrust of his arms up and down.
He stood up and faced me, his chest heaving and beaded with sweat. "You a faggot or what?"
"No. I ain't no faggot," I said.
He frowned a little and nodded. "Okay."
"Just in case you thinkin' about rapin' me, don't," I said, "I can take care of myself."
Thumper gave a sarcastic 'impressed' face and said, "Well, good for you, youngblood. That's a
good skill to have. But I don't rape niggas. Maybe an occasional whiteboi, but that's it. I'm too old for
that shit, holding down some squirming bitch, nigga, that ain't me."
"Good."
"Young buck like you, betcha considerin' it," Thumper said. He slapped my ass beneath my
prison uniform pants, then let his hand rest there. He squeezed one cheek affectionately. "You gonna
rape some whiteboi sooner or later."
"No I won't," I said. "I saw you readin' that Bible. Ain't nothin' 'bout raping whitebois in there."
"The Lord forgives, young blood. That's what makes Him great," Thumper said. He closed his
eyes and whispered a prayer. I rolled over, not liking the feeling of his hand resting on my ass. I knew
men in prison tended to grow accustomed to physical contact, but that was a bit much for me. His
hand fell on the bed in front of me, so if I laid back down on my belly, he'd be groping my cock.
Thumper leaned in close to speak to me and laid his other arm on the bed, so he now took up most of
the mattress with his arms, while I was pressed against the wall to avoid touching him. "You rollin'
with somebody?" he asked.
"I'm from California," I said, "I don't roll with no one in Baltimore. But I'm in the Tats out
there."
His hands snaked up my shirt, lifting it to check for the tattoos. I had it there on my belly -- the
Nine Tats required nine stages of induction, after which a letter was tattooed on bangers' bellies, with
the ninth stage then being an underline. Obviously it wasn't a very secure system -- undercover cops
could get tattoos laser-removed between cases, after all, but Thumper seemed satisfied by the N-I-N-
E-T tattooed on my belly. His hands roamed up my body, investigating my other tattoos for clues to
my origin. I would have rather had him do a visual inspection, but I wasn't feeling confident enough to
challenge him
He displayed his own tattoo, which spelled the whole thing and had the underline -- it was
apparent he had gotten all but the N-I in prison -- in case I hadn't already noticed it. But of course I
had, and I knew that meant he highly outranked me.
"Come on down here and do some pushups," he said, "If you gonna be in my organization, you
gotta be in shape. Ain't useful to me as a skinny motherfucker."
I got off the bed and took off my shirt. I had been playing basketball for years and was more
than strong enough, I thought, but he only nodded as though it was a good start. He groped me again,
feeling my biceps, triceps, lats and pecs. "Hey," I said, "You gotta be touchin' me all the time, nigga?"
"Yes, I do," he said, "Now gimme fifty, nigga. You do that three times a day, okay? Before
every meal, you do fifty pushups. We'll add more later, that's a start."
"I know how to work out, nigga," I said. "I ain't yo' bitch."
He stared me down. "I run this organization," he pointed to the tattoo on his belly, "So unless
you wanna be cast out, you gonna have to realize you work for me. You ain't a bitch... Yet. I give all
my niggas they workout routines. You can't trust a nigga to do it right. They all dumb in the head,
need someone to tell 'em what to do. I know how to train a nigga into being a good prison killer." He
stepped closer and closer to me and wrapped his arms around my waist as though we were about to
slow dance. His hands ran up and down my torso. "If you don't let me use this body the way I want, I
will find a different way to use it, one that you won't like one bit."
I gulped and stayed quiet. I knew I couldn't speak without stammering, which would make me
look weak, so I kept my mouth shut. He stepped even closer, so we were virtually kissing. I could feel
his cock inside his prison pants, pressing against my thigh.
"So get down and gimme fifty," he whispered, so close I could taste the spittle flying off his
tongue with each word. "A guard gonna come get us for dinner soon. I told you to do fifty push-ups
before then, so if that guard gets here before you done, there gonna be consequences." I thought he was
going to back away so I could get out from the wall and follow his instructions, but he stood right
there. I wasn't quite pinned but I couldn't easily move. I was about to protest but he raised his
eyebrows.
I took a deep breath, inhaling his sweat and funk, then tried to squeeze around him. He
continued to gently hold onto my back and belly with his roaming hands, but made no effort to stop
me from moving. His sweat stuck to my shirt, which I took off and threw on my bunk.
I wasn't weak, but I wasn't sure I could do fifty push-ups, especially not with my hands
shaking. I had come close to getting raped, I thought, I had better do this right.
On my third push-up, Thumper knelt down near my feet, giving me encouragement like a
coach. He slapped my ass and I felt his cock and balls, dangling beneath his shorts, resting on my
ankle. I looked back to him, instinctively wanting to protest, but he looked at me with raised eyebrows
as though daring me to say something.
So I tried to get the feel of his balls on my ankle out of my head and focused on doing the
push-ups. I was so terrified the adrenaline helped me along, but still when I got to forty-two, I
collapsed, out-of-breath.
"I can hear that guard, nigga," he said. "He comin' closer. You got eight more to do." He rested
his hand on my asscheeks, and pushed one finger between my crack. He let it rest on the surface of my
asshole, only the thin fabric of my prison pants preventing him from penetrating me.
I jumped back into action and did five more without thinking about it, then slowly, wobbly
armed and dripping with sweat, I made it through the last three.
He straddled my hips, so I could feel his heavy thick cock pressing against my asscheeks. He
leaned over my back, almost laying on top of me. "I know I said I don't rape niggas, and that's true.
But I love to fuck niggas. So don't gimme no reason to fuck you. Nigga. Don't ever question me
again."
CHAPTER TWO
The Consent of a Snitch
Thumper was bossy and mean, but more respectful than your average prison Tat leader, so I
couldn't complain too much. I did hate how touchy he was, but I felt better once I saw that he was just
as touchy with the other inmates. Knowing that it wasn't a prelude to a rape helped. I guess it was just
that he had been behind bars so long he was desperate for a little human contact, no matter where it
came from.
At dinner my first night, I saw him wrap one arm around the waist of the man sitting next to
him, a Tat named Fire. As we waited for the meal to be done, Fire straightened his back awkwardly. I
could see out of the corner of my eye that Thumper, who continued telling a story about the cop that
arrested him, slipped his hand down Fire's back and rested his finger inside Fire's asscrack. Fire was a
buff bull-nigga whose muscles tightened beneath Thumper's grasp. His nostrils flared and his eyes
darted around like a panicked animal.
When Thumper told me to sit by him the next morning, I dreaded knowing that his finger
would likely do the same to me. I was proven correct -- it was apparently what he did to whichever
nigga sat to his right during a meal. As soon as he finished eating, he put his hand on the small of my
back, and dropped his finger between my cheeks. His fingertip rested maybe an inch above my rectum.
Some of the other Tats around made eye contact with me, but no one said anything. It was
understood that Thumper did that, I knew but didn't appreciate that it was an accepted eccentricity of
his.
When the bell rang to signify the end of breakfast that morning, everyone else stood. I
hesitated because Thumper did, and I wasn't sure he would be okay with me just shoving away from
his hand. In the hubbub, he jabbed his finger into my rectum momentarily. I yelped, then fell silent
and looked away from the smirking Tats, who must have known what happened. Thumper clasped my
shoulder with his anal-stinked middle finger and used me for leverage as he stood.
When I got back to our cell that night, I was late, having been processed at my prison job all
day. He waited for me in his boxers, a big grin on his face.
"I got a surprise tonight, something to welcome you in," he said. "It should be here any
minute. Gimme yo' routine, nigga."
I got down on the ground and gave him fifty push-ups -- which I got through only because of
his continued shouting outweighing the pain from my aching shoulders.
Officer Armstrong arrived a few minutes after I finished. He was a mean redneck with wide
shoulders and a perpetual sneer standing at the doorway in front of a slim Latino with a trembling
frown. Armstrong shoved him in.
"You got fifteen minutes," Armstrong said, "And don't do nothing that'll require a visit to the
infirmary."
Armstrong closed the door. The Latin boy shook and clasped his arms across his chest.
Thumper approached him and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He placed that stinky middle finger
of his right hand on the Latin boy's mouth. "Sssh," Thumper said quietly, "What's your name, boy?"
"Hernan," he said.
"Thass right," Thumper said, "You a snitch, right? That's why Octavio turned you out."
"I'm not a snitch!"
"Octavio said you was," Thumper said. He raised his eyebrows like a dubious schoolteacher.
"But I'm not. I didn't snitch!" he said.
"That's exactly what snitches usually say," Thumper said. He looked at me. "Go on. I paid for
anal for myself, you only get oral, unless you gonna pay Octavio later for this ass. I recommend it, it's
a nice one. Only started getting fucked a few weeks ago." He pulled down Hernan's orange prison
pants and slapped his ass. "Yeah, this is nice ass."
"I dunno," I said, not sure if it would be considered rude to refuse. I would be saving him
money, after all, right? Why not say no? "I don't really need a blowjob. I could sit this one out."
"Nonsense," Thumper said. "I already paid for it." He smacked Hernan in the back of the head
as he lined his cock up with Hernan's bare ass. "Suck his dick, bitch."
Hernan pulled down my pants and took my dick into his mouth. He tentatively sucked on it, but
Thumper pushed his head down deeper. He gagged as my cockhead hit the back of his throat.
"Deepthroat it, bitch," Thumper said.
"I thought you didn't rape," I said.
"This ain't rape," Thumper said. "Snitches agree to get fucked when they snitch."
Outside the cell, Armstrong scoffed, "Ain't that the truth!"
Without missing another beat, Thumper slipped his cock in. Hernan grunted in pain around my
shaft in his mouth. Thumper held his breath with anticipation as he worked his dick deeper inch by
inch. He grabbed ahold of Hernan's hair and placed one hand on the small of his back to keep him in
position.
I felt sorry for Hernan, even if he was a snitch. I didn't want to rape him, but it seemed I didn't
have a lot of say in the matter. His squirming and choked sputtering made my dick barely get past
half-mast, until I realized Thumper was looking at me like something was wrong with me. I didn't
want to get a reputation as a man who can't perform.
Closing my eyes, I pictured my last girlfriend, a dark-haired Jewish white girl with a nice ass
and huge tits. I played with those tits for hours, and I could almost feel their phantom fleshiness
beneath my fingers.
Thumper let his cock plop out of Hernan's ass. He chuckled at Hernan's exaggerated sigh of
relief, then moved over to stand next to me.
"What are you doing?"
"Come on, I wanna nut in his mouth," Thumper said, "Ass to mouth is great. We'll fuck his
throat together. Octavio said he can take anything down his gullet."
Thumper took my now relimpened cock in his hand and pressed it against his own dick, which
was slimy with Hernan's assjuice. He jacked our cocks off together and pushed them both in Hernan's
tremulous mouth. I was horrified at the sight of him manhandling my dick, but he didn't seem the least
bit squeamish.
Our cocks smushed together, his a long thick hard tube that was pulsating hot and glistening
with moisture, mine noticeably thinner and fleshier, only half-hard. Hernan opened his mouth as wide
as he could, but only our cockheads fit inside.
"Use that tongue, bitch," Thumper said, "Get all up on that shit, yeah, like that."
Hernan's tongue delicately lapped Thumper's cockhead. Then Thumper smacked him in the
back of the head, loud enough for Officer Armstrong to poke his head back inside the cell.
"Five minutes, gentlemen," he said, "Then I gotta take the bitch back." He stayed to watch with
a wry smile as Thumper orgasmed, moaning and leaning on me for support.
Thumper came quickly after that, his semen sliding down my cockshaft. I was disgusted and
knew I couldn't cum, but Thumper looked at me like I was insulting him.
"Go on, you better finish," Thumper said, his voice now menacing.
I thought of that girl, desperately avoiding the feel of Thumper's cum-slickened cock sliding
against mine, or the stubble of Hernan's facial hair on my skin.
Finally I shot a load, the orgasm almost painful. It was thin and watery, and it landed right on
the center of Hernan's tongue. He gagged and squealed, and I breathed a sigh of relief, both from the
orgasm and my satisfaction that Thumper wasn't mad.
But then Thumper grabbed ahold of my dick and stroked it casually, a few quick pumps and
then he dropped it. I squealed and stepped away. "What the fuck, nigga?" I said. My heart dropped as I
said it because his face screwed up in anger.
He shoved me against the wall with all his heft. His chest pressed against mine, his face
millimeters from my cheek. I blanched, trying to show strength, but I couldn't find it in me. His moist
cock was hot and heavy against my thigh. He eyed me but didn't say anything -- I knew what I had
done, and I knew what he was threatening.
"Hey, you two have a lover's squabble or what?" Armstrong said. Hernan waddled, bow-legged,
out of the cell.
"That's right, a lover's squabble," Thumper said. He kissed me on the cheek. "Nothing but a
lover's squabble."
CHAPTER THREE
A Circlejerk Is Not a Rape
As I grew accustomed to life at Brutewood, things settled into a sort of cruel normalcy. The
everyday humiliations of prison life became minor nuisances, and even the food seemed to taste better
as memory of a better time faded from my grasp.
The one thing I couldn't get used to was Thumper's touching. Since he never hit me, the guards
wouldn't intervene, no matter how obvious it was I wanted him to stop. None of the Nine Tats would
back me up either, so I had no choice but to submit and accept it as a part of Brutewood routine.
About a month into my sentence, the air conditioning broke. I begged Thumper to let us take a
break from working out until it was fixed, but he looked at me like I was crazy. "The Alcachutres ain't
gonna stop. The Graybloods ain't gonna stop. The Ivory Way ain't gonna stop." He continued naming
every gang at Brutewood.
"Okay, okay, I just thought we might wanna keep the sweat down. It smells bad enough in here
as it is," I said.
"Fuck you, nigga. You the stinky one, youngblood," he said, "Go on, gimme some squat
thrusts."
As soon as I got started, Thumper stripped off his shorts and boxers, so his cock dangled freely
in front of me. He stood there watching me and scratched his balls. I knew better than to complain, but
I'm sure he could tell from the look on my face that I wasn't thrilled about his nudity.
When he finally told me I was done, I sopped off my sweat with a towel and climbed up to my
bed.
"Wait, nigga, come on down here," he said, "I got somethin' I been savin' for a rainy day. Or a
sweaty day, whatever."
He showed me a long, thin blunt. I didn't see where he had gotten it from, but he must have had
it stashed somewhere in the cell. He grinned, and my bitterness about his intimacy vanished. I hadn't
gotten high since before my trial.
I sat on the bed next to him. His stark nudity was uncomfortable, but I reminded myself that it
was only barely different than the thin layer of fabric I wore. Not really a big deal, I told myself.
He lit the blunt with a strike-anywhere match, and we began passing it back and forth. As
always, he answered any questions about his personal life with vague handwaving, and asked probing
questions about me and who I knew in the Nine Tats back in California.
The first haze in my mind appeared. I felt my eyes narrow to slits. In a way, I was glad I hadn't
been able to smoke for a long time -- that meant I got incredibly baked even on Thumper's tiny blunt.
"You always dodgin' my questions, Thumper," I said, feeling bold. "Wuzzup wit' dat?" I laughed at
myself, and Thumper joined in.
"You ain't wanna know nothin' 'bout ol' Thumper," he said, "I got nothin' important out there in
the real world. No career, no family, no friends. All that's left of me is what's in here."
"Is it true you was a boxer?"
"Shit, I was the best boxer," he said, "Still am. But don't ask me no questions about that,
nigga." He took the roach and dropped it, still lit, in his mouth. He swallowed it and smiled at me.
"Hey," he said, "Gimme yo' hand."
Too stoned to think about it, I just extended my hand to him. He took it and caressed it, moving
it slowly towards his crotch, I realized he expected a handjob and my heart dropped. I thought we had
decided he wasn't going to rape me.
"Hey, stop-"
"Shut yo' mouth, Gary," he said. "Don't you dare say no to me. You still ain't my bitch. Nobody
gotta know what happens in here. If you say no and I gotta force you into it, then you gonna be my
bitch. And everybody gonna know that."
I stopped resisting and looked away from him. He put my hand on his dick, and I awkwardly
jerked it a few times.
"I ain't gonna make you suck it," he said, "But come on, face me. Do this right."
We both turned to face each other on his tiny bed. He pulled me by the legs closer to him, until
our thighs were interlocking. He pulled my dick out of the fly of my prison boxers.
"See? I ain't a bad guy. This is a circlejerk, not a rape," he said.
He spat on his hand and flogged my dick until it got hard. His hands were softer than I
expected, though I felt the calluses and thick muscles underneath his skin. He moved with an expert
style, but in a dispassionate way, like a farmer collecting semen from a stud.
I was getting a rhythm on his dick, which pulsated in my hands. It was disgusting and made me
wish I could wear a glove. But I was sure he'd be offended even at the idea -- he'd accuse me of calling
him filthy.
He shot a load without warning. I hadn't thought I was giving a good enough handjob for him
to cum so quickly, but he must have been horny. His wad spurted all over my wrist and forearm. I held
my hand up like a mad scientist witnessing his creation, but I couldn't reach anything but my own
bedding to wipe off with.
I gagged and tried to move, but he told me to stay. He used both hands on my dick, and I have
to admit, once I got over the cum stuck to my fingers, it was the best handjob I ever had. He moved in
rhythm with my body and I could almost forget what a hellhole I was trapped in.
I came without warning too, my load making a hot and stinking mess right in the center of
Thumper's waist. He wiped it off with his hands, then affectionately wrapped his heavy arms around
my neck, smearing the cum across my shoulders as he went.
"There, there," he said, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Respecting Your Elders
As I neared the halfway mark of my sentence, a prison riot led to an extended lockdown.
Normally we'd be kept inside for a day, maybe two, after an increase in contraband. But not this time.
They didn't let us out for a month, except for a shower every other week -- and even that was each cell
at a time, no talking allowed.
Luckily Thumper had a few more blunts. He never showed me where he hid them, nor told me
how many he had, so I always had the impression we were smoking the last one. Then somehow a day
or two later he'd bring out another.
We smoked sitting on the floor, as we had gotten accustomed to, because the cement was
cooler than our beds, and it gave our sheets time to dry out during the day.
Thumper swallowed the roach, as he always did. Then he stood up, his cock dangling just in
front of my face. I looked away.
"Yo, Gary, I ain't gonna tell no one 'bout this, alright?" he said.
"What? You mean the blunt? It don't matter."
"No, not the blunt. I ain't been able to get a bitch in here in like two weeks," Thumper said. "So
you gonna have to fill in."
"What?"
"I won't tell no one. Just open yo' mouth, man. It'll be like it never happened."
"Thumper, stop-..."
"What did I tell you about sayin' no to me?"
A part of me wanted to fight no matter what, but my brain overruled my heart. There was no
way I'd win in a fight, and even if I survived, Thumper would just have me killed later. I'd be
remembered as a traitor to my fellow Tats. I opened my mouth.
He looked down at me with sympathetic eyes and shook his pitying face. He clicked his tongue
against his teeth. "You just showin' respect for yo' elder Tats," he said, "It used to be normal, y'know,
to suck older niggas off in jail. That's just what you did."
His cock slid into my throat, rubbing past my tongue, which twisted in revulsion at the flavor.
It tasted like pure, distilled sweat, I thought, stale and rancid sweat. It pulsated like a living organism
feeding off me.
He moaned and said, "Okay, relax yo' throat, nigga. You doin' okay. I ain't gonna beat yo' ass,
just keep on coop'atin'. Don't give up nigga, and try not to gag so much. I don't wanna feel like I'm
rapin' ya, y'know, you ain't a snitch. You just showing respect like you should."
He stopped talking just before his orgasm, giving me enough time to fill with dread. The hot,
sticky taste of precum filled my mouth, and I wanted to scream. Both of his hands were on my scalp,
massaging it as he worked his hips in a circle around my face.
His cum was so thick and luxuriant it spilled out the corners of my mouth. I was disgusted,
unable to concentrate on Thumper's words over the feeling of my contorting stomach. "Don't spit that
shit up, nigga, don't disrespect me like that. Don't pretend it's the grossest thing in the world, man. It's
my fucking body, show a little a respect. Swallow that shit." He held my head in place until finally I
got my revulsion under control and forced the wad of cum down my throat. He looked inside my
mouth like a curious doctor, and was satisfied that it was empty.
"Man, Thumper, don't do-"
"Shut the fuck up, nigga. You done," he said, "You did it. Now we ain't gotta talk about it
again." He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. "Now go on and gimme some push-ups before
we go to bed."
CHAPTER FIVE
A Polite Reacharound
As my release date neared, I got more and more relaxed. The light at the end of the tunnel was
coming closer, and some days I was almost giddy. Thumper seemed upset that I was leaving -- long-
timers sometimes felt that way, I knew, watching someone they cared about walk away.
After dinner a few nights before my release, he brought out a bottle of booze. Not toilet vodka
either, this was smuggled-in hooch. "I got us a surprise tonight. A bitch and a bottle. The bitch be
comin' by later."
I didn't really enjoy getting head from unwilling bitches, but Thumper never asked permission.
He assumed everyone was always as horny as him, and if I demurred even a little, he'd make fun of me
for having less sex drive than an old nigga like him.
"Whatcha gonna do when you get out there?" he asked. He must have been able to tell what I
was thinking about from the look on my face. Indeed, as my release seemed more imminent, I could
think of nothing else. Time slowed down. Every day became interminable, feeling longer than the
entire first couple months of my sentence.
"Nigga, I am gonna eat," I said as we waited for the snitch to show up, "I am gonna get my
mom to make me something nice, and damn I am gonna eat so fucking much. And then I'm gonna find
a bitch -- not some squirming snitch, but a real female and I am gonna fuck the shit out of her pussy."
The hours drifted on. The bitch never showed up, We later found out Cell Block Zulu was on
lockdown, so not even Officer Armstrong could bring Hernan over for us. My last night was shaping
up to be the longest and most boring night of my life.
But at least we had booze. I didn't much like liquor, honestly, and I never had, but I wanted to
get drunk and knew Thumper wouldn't let me refuse anyway. So I played along and took shots with
him all night. That made the boredom almost tolerable.
I passed out near midnight, glad to finally have my last night nearing its completion. It was a
deep, fitless sleep that ended abruptly.
I woke up to the feeling of Thumper's arms around me. His sweaty muscles encircled me, his
thigh atop my hips, his hands caressing my nipples.
"Not gonna rape ya," he said, "But since you leavin' anyway, I'm gonna have some fun wit' yo'
ass. Don't fight this shit, man. I can still tell every motherfucker in the Tats you turned faggot behind
bars. Just relax."
"Thumper, stop-"
"Sssh, I know you ain't just tell me no," he whispered in my ear, "I can still tell Armstrong to
frame you for something, nigga. I can keep you here as my bitch as long as I want. I'm doing you a
favor by just making you my bitch for a couple hours, and you won't never have to see me again
afterward. You can even pretend you was so drunk you don't remember it. That's what I'm gonna do.
Unless you fight me and make me hold you down."
His dick pressed against my rectum but hesitated, as though waiting for me to say yes or no,
even though he was going to do it anyway. I didn't want to say that I agreed to it, so I bit my lip.
"Well? Come on," he whispered. He nibbled on my earlobe and wrapped his arms around my
shoulders, putting me in a loose headlock that I'm sure would have felt great if I was a woman. "Am I
gonna make love to that ass one time and give you a nice reacharound while I do it? Or am I gonna
have you gangraped for profit for the next seven to ten years?" He waited again. "Huh?"
"Fine," I spat onto the pillow in front of my face, "Just hurry up."
"Don't be shitty with me, nigga," he said, "Or I am gonna get shitty with you." He pushed his
dick into my ass, and I howled at the sudden burst of pain.
His thick muscles dragged along my back as he pushed down on me with his whole body. He
kept his mouth right next to my ear and whispered dirty nothings at me, along with exhortations to
relax. "Come on, baby, let me in. I know it hurts, baby, but ya gotta relax, okay? I'm gonna get this
whole cock in there one way or another, and I know you don't wanna fight it.. You want it, huh? Say
you want it."
"I...want it."
"Say my name."
"Thumper."
"Come on, put it all together. Make it sound like you like it, nigga. Make me believe it."
"Thumper, I can't... I don't like it," I said.
"Then act, motherfucker," he said through gritted teeth. He pushed me into position so he could
fuck me doggystyle. "This position gonna be tough for you, man. You ready for it?"
This time he didn't wait for me to respond. He shoved his cock in and I squealed involuntarily,
lifting one of my legs up like a pissing dog. He slammed his hips against my ass and slapped a cheek.
His hands both reached my hips and wrapped around my cock. "Okay," he said, "Here comes
the reacharound. See? Not a rape if I get you off too. Don't bother telling the warden I raped you.
They'll keep you here for the investigation and then they'll assume it's consensual because I gave you a
handjob even though I didn't have to. But they'll charge you for having sex for sure. That's against the
rules, after all."
"I won't... snitch," I said. I could barely speak with the pain in my ass. Somehow my dick was
getting hard -- underneath the agony was an undercurrent of sexual pleasure stemming from my
freshly-stimulated prostate.
"I know," he said. "You ready for it? I'm gonna cum, and this is gonna hurt even worse. But
you doin' good, nigga, you ain't even bleedin'." This time it was Thumper's turn to lift a leg like a
pissing dog. He began jackhammering into me with every thrust and let out a loud moan. I could feel
precum filling my rectum underneath the mounting pain.
I screamed, unable to hold it in. I tried to collapse to the ground but Thumper was prepared and
held onto my hips to keep me in place. He kept me as a fuckdoll right in position for him to ram his
cock all the way into. We both ended up on the floor, him on his back and me on top of him,
squirming like an overturned turtle.
Hot cum spilled out of my ass and down his crotch, nestling in his unkempt pubic hair. He
gently squeezed my cheeks. "That was good," he said, "Now you sit right there while I get you off."
"Lemme up," I said, "I can't cum with your dick in my ass."
"I told you I was gonna make you like it, right? I'm a man of my word," he said, "So I'm gonna
jack you off until you have an orgasm even with me inside you. That way you'll always remember
Thumper White as the man who made you love cock."
"I don't love cock."
"We ain't done yet," he said. "Now hush up and concentrate. If it takes too long, I'll get hard
and fuck you again."
His limp cock was hot and full inside me, but I tried to ignore that and focus on my half-hard
dick. I again thought of my white female on the outside, imagining that she had waited for me, her
fleshy pussy spread wide for my dick.
My cum shot through the air and landed on my belly in a big puddle. I groaned, a little shocked
at how easy it turned out to be.
Thumper let his dick flop out of my ass, but stayed there on the floor, with me on top of him in
his arms.
"Thumper?" I said. He didn't respond. I started to roll off him, but he sleepily rolled over,
pinning me with his bulk. His limp cock pressed against my asscrack. "Thumper?" I said, resigned to
the fact that he was either sound asleep or was pretending to be, and either way, I was going to be
spending my last night in his arms.
I thought for sure I wouldn't be able to sleep. Between the excitement of my imminent release,
my shame at being fucked and my disgust at being spooned by the burly nigga beside me, I thought I
wouldn't sleep at all. But somehow I managed to find Thumper's strong arms and hot body comforting,
and I drifted off to sleep despite his dick wedged between my cheeks.
And so, even years later, when people asked me about my time in prison, I never knew what to
say and just claimed I didn't like to talk about it. In truth, the thing I remembered most about my time
behind bars was the taste and feel of Thumper's body around me on that final night, and it was a
memory I had grown to savor on lonely nights.
Keep reading after the end-matter to find a complete bonus story, presented just for loyal readers like
you!
Brutewood Correctional Facility is an open franchise intended for gay erotica with a prison theme.
That means anyone can contribute works to build up the mythology and fantasy that makes everyone's
stories more interesting, more compelling and sexier.
How does it work? Brutewood Correctional Facility is an open franchise , meaning that anyone
can use it. All you have to do is release any of your Brutewood-related work under the
, which allows for anyone to reuse the characters, locations and other setting elements of your
story.
Brutewood Correctional Facility
is at
. If you
want to be listed there -- and on the well-trafficked wiki, tumblr and other social media pages
connected to it -- send an email to the maintainer,
. He will ensure a minimum level
of quality and thematic relevance, and will help you meet the necessary requirements.
Brutewood Minimum Security
The Tragedy of Othain Moore, the Chief Nigga of Cell Block Charlie
: When a prison gang
leader falls in love with a young Aryan cell block bitch, their shared love sets into motion a classical
tragedy of epic and erotic proportions. Othain Moore is a crude, brutish gangbanger, the last person
anyone thought would come to love a jailhouse bottom. Dizzy is a tough white man, once forced into
an Aryan gang to survive in the harsh environment of Brutewood Correctional Facility. Othain and
Dizzy find themselves in a passionate affair so intense they can not bear to hide it, and Othain
revolutionizes his gang, the Nine Tats, by adopting a gentler approach to incarceration. But not
everyone in the Nine Tats approves, especially Othain's consigliere Jag. This is a hardcore gay erotic
short story that retells the immortal work of William Shakespeare, "The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor
of Venice".
Brutewood Correctional Facility is an open franchise intended for gay erotica with a prison
theme. That means anyone can contribute works to build up the mythology and fantasy that makes
everyone's stories more interesting, more compelling and sexier.
How does it work? Brutewood Correctional Facility is an open series , meaning that anyone
can use it. All you have to do is release any of your Brutewood-related work under the
, which allows for anyone to reuse the characters, locations and other setting elements of your
story.
Brutewood Correctional Facility
is at
. If you
want to be listed there -- and on the well-trafficked wiki, tumblr and other social media pages
connected to it -- send an email to the maintainer,
. He will ensure a minimum level
of quality and thematic relevance, and will help you meet the necessary requirements.
The Tragedy of Othain Moore, the Chief Nigga of Cell Block Charlie
: When a prison gang
leader falls in love with a young Aryan cell block bitch, their shared love sets into motion a classical
tragedy of epic and erotic proportions. Othain Moore is a crude, brutish gangbanger, the last person
anyone thought would come to love a jailhouse bottom. Dizzy is a tough white man, once forced into
an Aryan gang to survive in the harsh environment of Brutewood Correctional Facility. Othain and
Dizzy find themselves in a passionate affair so intense they can not bear to hide it, and Othain
revolutionizes his gang, the Nine Tats, by adopting a gentler approach to incarceration. But not
everyone in the Nine Tats approves, especially Othain's consigliere Jag. This is a hardcore gay erotic
short story that retells the immortal work of William Shakespeare, "The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor
of Venice".
Men of the New Mexico State Prison
: Fresh-faced inmate Ryan Timson struggles to find a
place in the prison hierarchy, settling into the arms of one of the many macho cholos that fill up the
bunks around him. His name is El Oso, and he is proudly heterosexual, dripping with machismo. He
never thought he'd come to appreciate a man's caress, but soon discovers that Ryan's skills come in
handy behind bars. Together the two explore the depths of masculinity in this passionate tale of
jailhouse lust.
: Mike Pavreau isn't sure how he's going to survive behind bars, especially
when he finds that his cellmate is a mean-faced black thug, Jordan Dalton. But Jordan turns out to be
more than he first appeared to be, and Jordan himself is surprised at his feelings for his handsome
white cellmate. Their friendship turns physical in the lonely isolation of a prison cell at Brutewood
Correctional, and by the time Mike is preparing to leave, Jordan is ready to pop the question of a
lifetime.
Prison Prey Turns to Prison Love
: Travis Branson is a slim effeminate man sent to Brutewood
Correctional Facility, the hardest and roughest prison in North America. There, he finds himself at the
mercy of one of his cellmates, Nasir. Nasir is a tough thug who thought he would victimize and torture
Travis to pass the time behind bars. But as their days together melt into weeks and months, Nasir finds
himself strangely attracted to Travis. Their semi-consensual relationship soon changes form, both
Nasir and Travis growing from distasteful acceptance to something passionate and powerful.
: When an American soldier is caught off-base in Turkey with a
small amount of marijuana, he is sent off to the hardest, cruelest prison in the country. The inmates
there are tough and macho, bulging with muscles and curves, but are comfortable with a degree of
physical intimacy that would be seen as gay in much of the Western world. Our hapless hero finds
himself in a position that's both erotic and humiliating, serving as a specialized masseuse for the men
of the prison oil wrestling team. Pleasing their aching muscles and rubbing them down with oil every
day, he must struggle to find a name and a place for himself among the brutes he finds himself living
with.
: Thumper White and Gary Frankson are cellmates -- one neat, the
other a mess; one old, the other young; one a lifer, the other a short-timer. Gary is glad on the one
hand to live with someone as powerful in the prison gang leadership as Thumper, but on the other
hand, he must always be careful to avoid drawing Thumper's ire. As he and Thumper grow close, he
finds that time and physical intimacy have played a role on Thumper's sense of boundaries, and his
ostensible heterosexuality is no match for his need for human contact. Gary goes along to get along,
only wanting to survive long enough to live as a free man once again.
A Redneck Convict Goes Gay-4-Pay
: Carruthers is a hard-edged rough-necked working man,
out on an early release program from Brutewood prison. Trying to earn a little money, he agrees to do
some light carpentry and yardwork for a gay couple who have their eyes on more than just a new
backyard. They think Carruthers' time behind bars might have left him ready to try the other pink
meat, and they're sure they have what it takes to push him over the line. But Officer Armstrong has his
own designs on what Carruthers has to do next, leading to an explosive finale you'll have to read to
believe!
: Reggie Meyers is an undercover agent willing to brave Brutewood
Correctional to catch a dangerous thug named Broadback. His plan to coach Broadback into a
confession stalls, however, and Reggie is forced to cross his moral and sexual boundaries in order to
survive. A sadistic screw soon throws a wrench into the entire plan, leaving Reggie in a very tight jam.
Not only is it possible that Broadback will get away with his crimes, it seems Reggie risks being stuck
at Brutewood forever.
Difficult Crimes, Difficult Times
: When three friends, Greg, Kyle and Lamar, are sent to
prison, they think that their toned jock bodies will protect them. However, life behind bars is not as
simple as it seems in the movies, and the young men must fight to survive in a cell block reserved for
cholo gangstas. This erotic tale contains in-your-face violence and sexual humiliation, culminating in
a filthy and exciting conclusion that will knock your socks off.
: When Rashad Myers gets locked up, he knows he is in for a rough time. Prison
is no joke; it's a dangerous place, full of macho thugs, cholo and gangsters. But Rashad isn't just there
to quietly serve his time and go home. Rashad has come to the Brutewood Correctional Facility with a
mission, which he focuses on like an animal stalking its prey. Rashad lost someone he loved very
much to the cruelties and savagery at Brutewood, and he is determined to get to the bottom of what
happened. Prison life doesn't bend to anyone's plans, however, and Rashad is compelled to become
that which he despises in order to be accepted by his new peers. He struggles with the crude conditions
and cramped quarters of Brutewood Correctional, coming face to face with his masculinity and sexual
identity. Rashad is forced into a hard-edged thug lifestyle behind bars, using strength, cunning and
brutality to dominate the other inmates and complete his quest. His journey is a no-holds barred erotic
kinkfest, meant for adult readers who can stomach the rough and raunchy sexuality that Brutewood
Correctional is known for. This is the most hardcore prison rape-fantasy on the market!
: Six young men are sentenced to prison, forced to live in brutal,
overcrowded conditions with a group of rough and macho cellmates. This is the story of their
incarceration and their struggle to survive in the Brutewood Correctional hierarchy that would exploit
each of them in their own way, pushing them into criminal and sexual exploits that they never thought
they would agree to. The six inmates include tough gangsta Darren, wisemouthed redneck Marcus,
"ex-gay" preacher Rick, popular jock Talab, arrogant thug Victor and charming cholo Pablo, all of
whom must learn to trust in each other and themselves in order to cope with the stresses of prison life.
"No Homo: Prisoners" is erotic urban fiction, brimming with hardcore and kink-filled action. It is
unique in that, despite its uncompromising and raunchy look at prison sexuality, there is no 'gay sex'
in the entire book -- that is, there is no act in this story whose participants consider themselves to have
done something unambiguously gay. It is, however, jam-packed with man-on-man action and all the
sexual humiliation that comes with being a straight guy in prison. This is a hard-hitting and gritty look
at life behind bars, meant for mature readers only.
Cover by Aidan Kelly
All of the stories in this ebook are released under the
, which allows for anyone
to re-use characters, locations and other setting elements in their own works. For more information,
see
What is the Open Setting License and why should I use it?
Re-using setting elements creates a shared universe that everyone can participate in. Multiple
authors can create versions of the same story, each with their own unique take. Authors can share
themes and ideas, facilitating communication among creative people around the world. Likeminded
authors can work together to critique and promote each other, working on shared plots and ideas.
Proprietary fictional universes are limited. Only a few authors get to contribute, and those who
own the rights to the most valuable properties worry that overuse will diminish its value. Open
Settings work in the opposite manner. The more the setting is re-used, the more valuable it becomes
because each author brings in a few more readers who are interested in the setting, and may want to
peruse other works that share the same characters and places. In this way, authors can build on each
other's success rather than fighting for proprietary control.
Audiences like familiar properties - that's why most of the biggest movies every year are
sequels, prequels or remakes. But struggling new creators can't afford to buy the rights to familiar
properties. With Open Settings, you don't need to. Anybody can use familiar fictional characters,
corporations and celebrities.
Big Hollywood studios, publishing houses and other media firms control most of those
blockbuster franchises, giving them a competitive advantage over smaller and independent content
creators. The Open Setting License prevents this stranglehold, transferring money and power from big
media companies to the authors, filmmakers and artists who create the work.
Why use the Open Setting License for erotica?
Because it enables you to use the wiki Eroticature.org, with which you can organize your
erotica around highly targeted niches, helping you and other authors who target that niche to grow,
share and expand on your audiences.
Because there are Tumblr blogs which promote Eroticature works and have a substantial
number of viewers. Any Eroticature work may be exposed to large audiences in this way.
Because organizing erotica around erotic concepts, settings and conceits makes searching for
erotica more memorable and almost as sexy as reading it, making audiences likelier to continue
finding new works this way.
Because any Eroticature author who pays for advertising may directly or indirectly lead
audiences to other authors, bringing new readers to anyone who participates in the project.
Because archetypes are powerful. Eroticature is built around projects and archetypes that
elevate and amplify simple ideas. For example, lots of men find "hot young college women" sexy, and
you can write a story built around that attraction, and you might find an audience. But if a dozen
authors write about the same hot young college woman, a perky blonde named Kelly, she becomes
much more erotic -- even if those stories are not consistent in their depictions of Kelly, she will
become more attractive, more compelling and more memorable in readers' minds. Those who like
women like that will seek out additional stories featuring her, benefitting everyone who contributes.
Eroticature provides an easy-to-remember and easy-to-expand-on way for both readers and writers to
stay connected and updated on new works.
Difficult Crimes, Difficult Times
Curtis Kingsmith
CHAPTER ONE
Welcome to Brutewood
Despite the name, Cell Block Zulu was where they put all the Latinos. That wasn't where Greg
and his friends were supposed to be assigned. Kyle had said his uncle, a former inmate at Brutewood,
would make sure they were protected. He has strings he can pull on the inside, Kyle said. But Greg had
had sinking suspicion Kyle was full of shit - he always has been.
Greg and his friends, Kyle and Lamar, were the only new prisoners processed at the Brutewood
Correctional Facility that day, and they shuffled through the dimly-lit corridors of stained plaster with
holes and unpainted bits covering other holes. There were several conspicuous bloodstains, which all
three shyed away from. They were handcuffed, legs in irons, which forced them to walk very slowly,
holding the chains up, legs spread wide as though they had shit their pants.
Lamar and Greg exchanged nervous glances, Kyle a few paces in front of them. Lamar was
short, squat and black, with very dark skin and a finely etched muscles; he had a smattering of facial
hair and a boyish face. Greg was white and dirty blonde, much taller and skinnier than the other two.
Kyle walked with a swagger ahead of us, despite the irons limping his gait, and he had a confident
glare when he turned around to face us; he had very dark hair and was very muscular, with the build of
the high school football star he had been before the arrest. He had said over-and-over that he wasn't
worried about doing his bid at Brutewood, and he promised to protect Lamar and Greg.
They stopped in front of a heavy steel door that said "Cell Block Alfa" in Gothic lettering. The
guard in front of us, a muscular white man with a barely-noticeable Russian accent, looked at Lamar
and said, "Okay, this is where you separate."
Lamar looked at Greg, his eyes opening wide, his dark face suddenly pale.
"Yo, man," Kyle said, and Greg winced as he saw the guard's how dare you speak to me like
that? look. "We was told we'd do our bids together."
"You boys don't want that," said the Russian guard, facing Lamar, "This block is for white
people, and it's only got room for two more."
"Dawg, come on," Kyle said, stepping towards the guard as though trying to intimidate him.
"You shitheap think you can stare me down," said the guard, who then switched to a torrent of
angry Russian.
"Kyle..." Greg said, "Don't get yourself in trouble-"
"Shut the fuck up, Greg, you gotta prove yo'self a man in this place," Kyle said, still staring at
the guard, who had to look up at Kyle, but didn't flinch once.
In a flash, the guard took out his taser and zapped Kyle right in the gut. He went down with a
loud shout, and the guard laughed, "You need to bring your motherfucking arrogance down about a
dozen notches, got it?"
"Man, fuck you!" Kyle said.
"Okay, that's it," the guard said, turning to Greg and Lamar, "You two are going to learn a
lesson about hanging out with shitheaps. And that shitheap who just pissed himself at my feet? He is
going to learn the mother of all lessons."
The smell of urine was strong, and Kyle crawled to his feet in pain, his muscles still twitching
from the shock.
The guard spoke into his radio, "Hey these three asked to be put on Cell Block Zulu." He
grinned a slick, arrogant smile.
The voice that crackled on the other end said, "They requested that?"
The Russian guard in front of them said, "Sick bastards, yeah, that's what they came here for."
The voice sighed, "Okay, ten-four."
"This way," said the guard, and he walked. Lamar and Greg followed him closely, Kyle
dragging behind, his urine soaked prison jumpsuit sticking to his legs.
They passed through a long corridor lit by fluorescent light, with heavy steel doors every
hundred feet or so. The sound was mostly silence, except as they passed one such door, where screams
of pain could be heard. The guard in front of them banged his baton on the door as they passed.
He turned around and said, "I'm Officer Nabokov. I work on Zulu, so you'll be seeing me a lot.
Let me know when you're ready to beg for a transfer."
They stopped at a door that said "Cell Block Zulu".
"Look, we don't know the difference between the blocks, but this place doesn't sound like
where we want to be. We'll beg now," Greg said, flashing his charming smile and handsome blonde
face.
"You came together, you transfer together," Nabokov said, "You beg together."
Greg and Lamar looked at Kyle, pleading, "Come on, man, do it."
Kyle shot a macho, disinterested sneer, looking away from all of them, tapping his foot and
crossing his arms the best he could still handcuffed.
"Kyle, yo, don't do this," Lamar said. He was normally at least as macho as Kyle, but he knew
he had the most to lose being the odd man out racially. Being the only black guy among the three, he'd
be the most likely to be separated.
"Man, you two are pussies!" Kyle snorted, looking at Nabokov derisively, "No, fuck all three of
you."
Greg and Lamar got on their knees in front of Officer Nabokov, almost falling over because of
the leg irons, leaning on each other's muscular jock bodies. They stared at Kyle. "We will never talk to
you again," Lamar said.
Kyle reluctantly bent down on one knee, scorn in his eyes, arrogant sneer still across his face.
"Please, sir. Please put us in a nicer cell."
Nabokov said something in Russian and spat on the ground at his feet. All three of them felt
droplets of his spittle on their face, and Kyle visibly bristled.
"Now, suck my dick," Nabokov said, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows.
Greg's heart sank. He knew Kyle would not bring himself to do it.
Kyle shook his head and stood. "No, no, no, we ain't no faggots."
"What do you think is going to happen in there?" Nabokov said.
"Come on, Kyle, do it!" Greg pleaded.
Lamar reluctantly stood and looked down at Greg, "I can't do that by choice. God will
understand if I'm forced..."
Greg said to Nabokov, "Come on, just me then."
"We were supposed to stay together!" Kyle shouted, "You fucking pansy!"
"No," Nabokov said, "I'm going to enjoy watching the three of you play out in there."
He opened the door, revealing a large room with a few rows of bunk beds on one side, two bare
toilets in the front of the room, and a long row of weights and work-out equipment. Personal
belongings were piled on small shelves near each bunk. The scent of stale sweat and man-farts filled
the room. Nabokov pushed them in, muttering under his breath and laughing.
There were no people. It was an empty cell, and they walked up and down it, seeing another
heavy steel door beyond this one, labelled Zulu Two. There were rosaries, crucifixes and Spanish
language posters. There were twenty-one beds, consisting of seven stacks of three each, all of them
with belongings on them.
"What the fuck?" Kyle said, "There ain't no empty bunks."
"Look," Lamar said, pointing to one corner near the door to Zulu Two. It took Greg a moment
to realize that the piles of belongings along the floor were people's wadded up clothes and bedsheets -
there were already more people living here than there were beds.
The entrance opened up, and a guard walked in, a tall brown-haired man with a bored look on
his face. He saw Kyle, Lamar and Greg but ignored them, and motioned for a group of men to come
through. It was about two dozen Latino men in prison jumpsuits, all of them subdued and quiet.
Mostly muscular, they flexed and stuck out their chins at the newcomers as they lined up at the exit
door.
Greg wanted to look away from the hostile eyes staring at him, but he was entranced by them.
He saw a few of the bigger ones look at him lustfully, one of them rubbing his crotch, showcasing his
heavy dick through the jumpsuit.
The first guard came and opened the door, his heavy boots trampling all over the things laid on
the ground. The men filed through into the next room. This process was repeated more times than
Greg bothered to count, with hundreds of men in total walking past him. One of the groups was
completely naked, covered in sweat and uncuffed. They were excited, hollering in Spanish and then,
when they saw Greg and Lamar cowering near each other in one corner, they pointed, grabbed their
dicks and shouted. "Be my bitch, puta, yeah," "You gonna be loco for cock, yeah." "Who'd those white
boys piss off to get in here?"
Finally there was a long period of silence, and then the final group of inmates filed in. Officer
Nabokov was back leading the way, and he watched by the door as the men entered, stopping when
they saw Greg, Lamar and Kyle.
"Meet your new cellmates, gentlemen," Nabokov said.
A series of loud catcalls erupted, the men talking amongst themselves, dispersing to their
bunks and taking off their jumpsuits to reveal regulation prison boxers. They were big men, with thick
biceps and inked gang tattoos covering at least their chest and shoulders, if not their whole bodies. At
least one of them, a tall gangsta with a mean glint to his eyes and chiseled abs covered with light fur,
was tattooed from head to toe with crude prison tats. Greg could feel him staring as the other men
filtered around the room.
A half-dozen or so of the smaller, seemingly weaker gangstas approached Lamar, Greg and
Kyle, who were clustered around the floor bunks.
"Those are our places," one of them said, a very young-looking lean man, who flexed his
shoulders as he shoved them out of the way.
They moved further towards the front of the room, but were stuck either right amongst the
toilets or in the weight-lifting area. All three spread out amongst the weights and sat, Greg and Lamar
near each other and glum, while Kyle was strong and proud to one side.
It wasn't long before the barrel-chested Mexican whose entire body was inked came to the
weight area, and sat on a bench next to Greg, who trembled. The Mexican began doing curls, wearing
only his prison boxers and long socks, his trunk-like thighs bristled with thick hair that Greg felt
rubbing against him. His heart was thumping as he wondered if he should move away. Finally he did,
sitting right next to Lamar, but only seconds later, the Mexican moved as well, doing curls almost on
top of Greg.
The tattooed Mexican was not looking at Greg, whose thick jock muscles trembled. He had
always been one of the strongest kids in his school, so now that he found himself the weakest in body
and spirit, he was out of sorts and completely unsure how to carry himself.
The Mexican stopped his curls after what seemed like eons, his body now glistening with a few
beads of sweat. He rubbed one of his rough, thick-fingered hands across Greg's face, and he shuddered.
The Mexican passed his fingers through Greg's crew-cut blonde hair. His hand came around to Greg's
mouth, and he gently pried it open, peering inside like he was looking for treasure. The Mexican put a
few fingers in Greg's mouth as though checking out how big his mouth was, and Greg gagged from the
feel of the sweaty, leathery hands. He withdrew his fingers and nodded as though satisfied.
"Hey," Kyle said, "Don't mess with him. He's under my personal protection."
The room fell silent, and the tattooed Mexican stood, staring down Kyle.
"What?" he said.
"Don't mess with us. I'll fuck you up," Kyle said, and for once Greg was glad for his friend's
pushy mouth.
The Mexican pointed at Greg, and said to Kyle, "I was gonna fuck the shit out of him, but I am
going to like the way you squirm. You are mine."
"No way, hombre," Kyle said, throwing a punch that landed right in the Mexican's belly. He
flinched to a barely noticeable degree and then smiled. Greg heard scattered laughter among the other
Mexicans, looking over and startled to see that, among the floor-dwellers at the other end, two were
sucking the cocks of bigger men, who watched the fight unfolding in front of them.
The Mexican - whom Greg deduced went by Gato from the catcalls he heard - dropped his
boxers, revealing a thick round bubble butt covered in fur, an incredibly wide and long dick hanging
between his legs, uncircumcised and growing harder as he licked his lips and made a fist with his
hands.
Kyle punched, hitting Gato in the face, but he was again barely fazed. Gato snarled and
jumped, fists plazing, knocking Kyle to the ground instantly. Before Greg could even register what
was happening, Gato's heavy muscular body was on top of Kyle, his hairy chest rubbing against his
smooth teenage back. Gato nibbled on Kyle's ear, drawing blood, while one arm encircled his head,
and the other began ripping off his prison jumpsuit.
Kyle had always been strong, and had wrestled in addition to being on the football team with
Lamar and Greg, so he was no slouch in the muscle department. But somehow he seemed completely
powerless against Gato's ravenous energy. The assembled Mexicans, many of whom were now
flogging their cocks and watching, cheered Gato on.
Sputtering and turning red from the weight of the Mexican on top of him, Kyle flailed, banging
his head against the ground until it bled. Greg felt bad that he wasn't making any effort to save his
friend, who had just defended him, but he knew it was hopeless. Kyle was looking up at him and
calling out for him, but Greg only looked at Lamar and faced back toward the door, praying that
Officer Nabokov would give in and let them transfer any second. But the guard had left the room, and
there was seemingly no one around but the other cholos.
Gato flexed his left bicep at Greg, who shuddered, trying not to look at his friend's rape, but
also trying to avoid the legion of naked men in front of him. Kyle's face was scrunched up in agony as
Gato slid the tip of his dick in. He held onto Kyle's throat with one arm and pushed his cock in,
screaming invectives in Spanish, impaling Kyle's muscular body on his dick.
Kyle let out a loud scream, and the room erupted in cheers. Most of them spoke Spanish, but
Greg heard a few saying, "Get him, Gato, break that bitch in. Welcome him to Zulu One, nigga, give it
to him good."
The sound was deafening, and Greg buried his face in his knees, trying to pretend it wasn't
happening. Gato was lifting his whole body up as though doing a push-up, then collapsing his entire
weight on Kyle's back, slamming his dick in each time. Kyle's face was wedged into the wall, so with
every thrust his head was slammed against the steel surface.
Officer Nabokov's smug face appeared in the little window on the cell door, and he smiled,
mouthing the words, "You should have sucked my cock."
Finally, Gato stopped, pumping his hips, trembled and paused before slamming his whole body
down one more time onto Kyle's ass. His heavy Mexican dick plopped out, and Gato stood, wiping the
santorum off on his bitch's thigh. Kyle slid to the ground, exhausted, covered in sweat, a few droplets
of blood dripping down his face.
Gato sat down next to Kyle, planting his feet squarely on his face, and resumed his curls,
ignoring Kyle's whimpering gasps.
***
Kyle's proud glare disappeared for a few hours that night. He snuck dirty glances at Greg and
Lamar, who avoided looking at him clustered near each other amongst the weights. Every hour or so,
Gato roughed up Kyle some more, fucked him again and pounded on his face until Kyle was nothing
more than a sobbing mess at his feet.
Another cholo stepped forward during a lull in Kyle's fucking. Greg had noticed this one
talking animatedly and gesturing towards him and Lamar. He was leaner than Gato, with a long face
and a thicker mustache. His head was completely shaved, his tattoos stopped on his neck, and he had a
cruel gaze, seemingly incapable of smiling, or even any facial expression besides arrogant disaproval.
His name was Parra, and he didn't speak any English. He spoke in Spanish and motioned for Lamar to
come. When he hesitated, Parra grabbed him and dragged him across the cell.
Greg felt miserably alone now, with Kyle angry and sobbing, Lamar about to be the victim of
who-knows-what. He shrunk into the corner, wishing he could go invisible.
There was a confused torrent of activity, while Lamar stood awkwardly looking back at Greg.
It soon became apparent that the men were forming a game of dice and the winner was going to own
Lamar. They stripped off his clothes, whistling at his smooth black skin - he had always shaved most
of his body to show off his phenomenal physique, rippling abs and obliques, wide lats and bulging
biceps, all of which seemed to be for show since they weren't helping him now. He was obviously
terrified, quivering as a dozen men prodded him like he was a show horse. Lamar's long cock was
thick and veiny, and had long been an object of pride for him; he had always taken every opportunity
to whip it out and show off. But now he covered his genitals with his hands. The cholos rubbed his
back and smacked his muscular asscheeks, whistling appreciatively. Parra stuck a finger up his ass,
and laughed at Lamar's surprised oomph; he withdrew his finger and stuck it in Lamar's mouth for him
to clean it, jabbering in Spanish so fast Greg couldn't understand a word even though he had taken
some in high school. Lamar gagged on the taste of his own ass.
The game of dice proceeded. Greg couldn't follow what was going on, but saw that Lamar had
been dragged down to the floor, and was wrapped in Parra's muscular arms, shuddering and closing his
eyes. Whenever one of the other men won a round, he would whoop, smack Lamar on the face, feel his
tongue with their grimy hands or even give his bare asscheek a lick.
Parra won the game, and brought Lamar into the back with him. Greg couldn't watch. He
turned away, only to see another Mexican, very short but squat, with hairy muscles that made his
frame virtually rectangular. He was Carcayu, and he was already naked and erect.
"I got you, bitch," was all he said in a very thick accent, and ripped off Greg's prison jumpsuit
slamming him against the mirrored wall. He could see Lamar getting fucked in the reflection,
screaming at the Mexican behind him to stop. Greg's heart raced, his mind demanding he do
something, but he was trapped. He could only go limp and collapse to the ground, cooperating as
Carcayu rubbed his giant hairy, uncircumcised foreskin across Greg's face.
He screamed and Carcayu rammed his cock in, seemingly oblivious to Greg's teeth, just
pushing past his tongue and into the back of his throat. It smashed against his esophagus, and Greg
gagged over and over. Carcayu ignored him and thrust his hips forward, each gyration slamming the
back of Greg's head against the mirror.
Greg felt like he was passing out from lack of oxygen, and his mouth and jaw were in such pain
he wondered if it was broken. He wanted to scream and though he was biting down, but Carcayu was
relentless, and Greg's heaving stomach produced copious bile and saliva that burst out of the corners
of his mouth, dripping down Carcayu's cock.
He withdrew his dick and held out three fingers, which he put down one by one, counting down
the break, it seemed, while Greg tried desperately to catch his breath. After three seconds, Carcayu
pushed his cock right back in Greg's gasping mouth. Greg's nose was nestled in the man's curly,
scratchy pubic hair, and the smell of crotch-sweat overwhelmed his senses.
When Carcayu came, it was in thick torrents of salty cum, and he held his cock in place while
his hips shook, Greg's body violently rejecting the heaps of cum shooting down his throat and trachea.
Greg choked, his red-face finally passing out from lack of oxygen, his taut body sliding into the corner
between the bench press and the wall.
CHAPTER TWO
Cell Block Zulu
Greg woke up to the sound of a group of men being led through the cell again, their chattering
breaking him from a deep slumber that he didn't even remember. The last thing he recalled was that
man, Carcayu, fucking his face over and over, and his own intense feelings of powerlessness as his
athletic body proved useless against the incredibly thick, toned Mexican who had attacked him.
The cells of Zulu were divided roughly by nationality and gang status, in order to better keep
the peace. Greg would later learn that the men being led through his cell first that morning were the
Guatemalans, who stared and snickered at Greg's cum and saliva-stained face. He realized he was
naked, his cock feeling somehow smaller, more shriveled, his balls withered to nubs, and his whole
body flushed. The Guatemalans openly laughed, flapping their uncircumcised caramel cocks out.
Officer Nabokov walked past Greg and shook his head. "Get yourself together, man."
"Wait, please, move me," Greg said, but the guard only laughed and said, "Has your friend
learned his lesson?"
"Yes, oh god yes! He learned it last night," Greg said, trying to ignore the jeering of the
Guatemelan men.
One of the Guatemelans stepped forward, a graying man with a powerful chest and slightly
sagging belly, cradling his thick silver-haired balls and heavy cock, which was half-hard. He whacked
Greg across the face with it, and Greg pushed him away.
Out of nowhere, Carcayu pushed through the line of men and grabbed the older Guatamelan,
slamming him against the ground. He screamed in Spanish, punching him until Officer Nabokov
stopped him with a taser.
The Guatamelan who had attacked him was bloody and had to crawl back to the line, where his
fellow gangbangers helped him up. They left the room, and the shocked Carcayu pushed himself onto
a bench in the weight area, where Greg had slept.
Carcayu looked at Greg and nodded, and he knew what meant. He walked forward slowly, but
when he got within arm's reach, Carcayu grabbed his neck and pulled him so close they were virtually
kissing. Carcayu was hissing something in Spanish, but Greg could tell from his tone that it was a
threat demanding that he come faster when called.
Greg was pressed against Carcayu's muscles, which were so finely etched it was like being
crushed against a granite statue of a man, except this one was covered in sweat-stinking body fur. He
smelled so bad Greg thought he might vomit again, pieces of curly, salty hair getting caught in his
teeth and tongue as Carcayu pushed him down. The hairs grew even thicker, the smell gradually
switching from body odor to balls.
His cock tasted funky and foul, and his thick pubic hair smelled like an armpit. It swelled,
filling his mouth, and he struggled to get it all down, remembering how he had been punished the
night before for failing to do so. Again, he got only half of it in his mouth, and then had to endure
Carcayu banging on the back of his head, slamming his hips into Greg's mouth so hard he felt the pain
running from his jaw to his belly.
The cum came suddenly, and without warning, filling Greg's throat and stomach with snotty
semen. His body heaved in response, and some of it came back up, sticking to the dense pubic hair of
the muscular man in front of him, leaking out the sides of his mouth and even through both of his
nostrils.
***
Parra was an inveterate gambler, Lamar soon learned. He ran dice and card games throughout
Brutewood, getting special favors from the guards by cutting them in. He made a lot of money, but he
lost a lot too, and he sometimes paid for his bets with Lamar's mouth.
He was tall and lean, with ropy muscles inked with prayers to saints and gang icons. Parra had
an entrepeneurial spirit, and it showed from the moment he wrapped his arms around Lamar's waist
and said, "You comin' with me." He had ripped the prison jumpsuit off, revealing Lamar's muscular
football playing ass, which he jiggled and slammed one finger in before Lamar even realized what was
happening. He was being displayed to a dozen or so muscular Mexican men, who groped his body,
evaluating it and discussing its merits as a fuckhole in Spanish interspersed with a few occasional
English words. Lamar put his ass-stinked finger in Lamar's mouth to clean it off, and when he bit
down, struggling against the taller, leaner man's grasp, Lamar began punching.
Lamar knew he was technically stronger than Parra - all of his muscles were bigger, but his
were built in his high school's gym and football field, and Parra's were built on the streets, and he was
quicker and threw a better punch. Lamar's nose bled as his face was ground into ground, Parra on top
of him, gripping his neck with one hand and rolling the dice with another.
The game began and Parra encouraged the players, who laughed and cheered themselves on.
Lamar tried to struggle again, and Parra took his free hand and reached behind himself, sticking two
fingers in Lamar's ass. He clenched and pain bloomed up his spine as Parra began jabbing his fingers
painfully.
"Stop fighting me, bitch," Parra finally whispered into Lamar's ear, in perfect English, "Or I
will shove shit up your ass until your whole fucking body breaks, got it? Nobody here will rat on me,
so you will be just one more former bitch. If you think you're going to be anything other than my bitch
while you're at Brutewood, you need to readjust your plans. These dice are rigged, so I know you'll be
mine. You want me to be a nice man, you do what I want before I tell you to do it."
Lamar wanted to tell him to fuck off, but could barely breathe and was scared of the
consequences, so he just fell limp. Parra's entire body was on top of hip, his hot hard cock resting
against Lamar's muscular thighs. He smelled of sweat and piss. He lifted up Lamar's head so that he
could see the cholos, flogging their cocks and looking anxiously at Lamar. Parra spread open Lamar's
mouth, boasting that he could fit his whole fist in there in broken Spanish. The men were betting packs
of cigarettes, a few tattered dollar bills and cans of sardines.
Soon enough the craps game was over, and Parra grinned, "Well now it's official. Wait, not
yet." He slipped the tip of his dick in Lamar's ass and said, "Now it's official. You're my bitch."
He pounded away, Lamar screaming and clenching his fists. He tried to reach behind himself,
but Parra kept a tight grip on his neck, pushing him down, so he could only weakly claw at Parra's
torso. Humiliated by the men who watched, nodding appreciatively, flogging their own cocks, Lamar
bit down on the leg of his prison jumpsuit, which was crumpled near his head. But Parra tore it out of
his mouth and said, "No, let me hear it." Lamar panted and moaned, trying to hold back any screams
or crying, not wanting to give his attacker the satisfaction. He tried not to think about the long alien
heat tickling his insides like a parasite, shockwaves of pain running through his body.
Warm cum spread in a burst, and Parra thrust his hips a few more times, then plopped it out
and sat down, tired. Lamar was in shock and pain and couldn't move, just laying there on the ground
while the other men stepped on him, walking over his msucular back to get into their bunks.
He didn't know how long later it was when Lamar grabbed his arm and put a pen and piece of
paper in his hand. It was a Commissary Transfer form, and most of it was already filled out,
established a daily transfer of ten dollars to Parra's account. "It cost you ten bucks a day to be my
bitch," he said, "Cuz I gotta protect you from these cholos. That'll be most of your wages from
whatever job they give you."
As it turned out, they gave him a job sewing uniforms for the guards, and its pay was only
$10.50/day after Brutewood took its cut for room and board, so Lamar made only fifty cents a day.
Most of his free time was spent doing work for Parra, who hired him out for virtually any task for any
price as long as he didn't have a better offer. There was an inmate named Julio who paid Parra one
cigarette to have Lamar clean the toilet everytime Julio had to take a shit, because he didn't like using
a dirty toilet. Parra woke Lamar up in the middle of the night to wash a guard's car, sometimes
keeping him for days at a time with constant chores.
Of course chores and manual labor weren't the only way Parra made money off Lamar. Most of
the other inmates had no money or assets aside from maybe a bitch of their own, so a lot of the time,
Parra simply made offers, trying to get prisoners to buy. When he thought he could make a sale, he'd
go as low as he could, charging just a few cigarettes if that's all the man could afford.
At first, Lamar sucked a lot of cholo dick. Parra wanted a lot of money for his ass since it ws
still relatively tight and fresh, and Parra himself had only fucked it that first night as part of claiming
Lamar as his own.
He began parading Lamar around, looking for buyers. Lamar was exhausted from spending the
day operating the sewing machines, and then even using the meager breaks he was given to clean
toilets for someone who had paid Parra for him to do it. Parra waited for him outside of the factory
floor between each break, escorting him to the toilets, where he had to rush on his hands and knees to
clean each toilet with a dingy brush and a bucket of bleach. Parra yelled at him to do it faster and
faster, even kicking him in the side to motivate him, and when he was finally done with a few minutes
left on break, Parra let an incredibly fat man fuck his face, rolls of flabby, hairy belly pressing against
Lamar's face.
Every day after work, Parra dragged Lamar through each of the cells of Zulu, forcing him to do
a little dancing display, which he awkwardly did, showing that he could fit his whole hand in his
mouth, and turning around to reveal his tight butthole. He felt waves of revulsion at the humiliation of
it, as the watching men murmured in Spanish, whispering to each other while they evaluated his body.
A total of six men bought a blowjob his first day. They all had long, uncircumcised cocks that
smelled of dick cheese under their foreskins. He threw up four times, to great cheers from all the
cholos, who apparently saw it as a big game to make bitches vomit from their dicks. Parra yelled at
him to do better, and gave him tips the entire time. "Stick yo' tongue out of yo' mouth," he said, "So it
covers up yo' teeth. That makes it better. Go all the way down, nigga, get all of it down yo' throat.
Parra's bitches give head to die for, so you better learn to deep-throat."
Somehow the deal switched from Parra taking ten bucks a day from Lamar's
Commissary account to Parra doing that and requiring that Lamar make for him at least ten dollars or
one pack of cigarettes a day in sex acts or chores. Lamar protested but only received a stern punch to
the face for his troubles. So by the end of most nights, Lamar had to sell his mouth for just one
cigarette a blowjob, trying to make up the difference, or else Parra would beat him bloody and still
charge him the extra money plus interest anyway.
Lamar soon became an expert cocksucker, and could make most men cum in about
three minutes, swallowing even the biggest of dicks and gulping down the gigantic cumloads that men
who hadn't nutted in months produced when they came out of long-term solitary confinement. He
grew numb to the pain and the humiliation, and almost forgot that he had once been a proud,
handsome jock, disgusted by the thought of sucking cock, with a legion of pussy begging to fuck him.
And now, he was the pussy for a legion of cock.
***
As it turned out, Gato was unbelievably cruel. That very first night after he claimed Kyle, he
fucked him what felt like a hundred times, each one sending a wave of jism into Kyle's protesting
buttocks. Gato was shorter than Kyle but he had a thick body with a hard-edged physique, and he was
relentlessly tough. No matter how good of a punch Kyle got in, Gato was unfazed, and always
retaliated with superior force.
Kyle told himself to stop fighting, to give into Gato's demands and just focus on finding a way
out of this mess. But his macho pride swelled up every time Gato entered him, riding him like a
woman and slapping his asscheeks. He'd slap Kyle as punishment and when he was bored, and it was
only on his third day that Kyle realized his face would become permanently distorted if he didn't start
playing along.
That was the inspiration he needed, for he still held out hope that one day he'd get out of
Brutewood, and he'd still be a charming young stud who could get laid by hot chicks every night. He
swallowed his pride and started trying to please Gato.
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, forcing himself to suck on Gato's dick that first time.
He knew if he didn't do a good enough job, Gato would go back to fucking his throat and punching the
back of his head to cram all his entire dick in there. So he tried to genuinely do his best, quell the
gagging heave of his unwilling throat as his tongue wiped the sweat off the thick uncircumcised cholo
dick. He caressed the base with his hand, hoping that would feel good enough that Gato wouldn't force
him to swallow the rest of it.
"You doing it right now, bitch," Gato said, right before his cock pulsated a few times, and
squirts of heavy cream filled Kyle's mouth. He swallowed it and displayed his empy throat to Gato,
who nodded and told him he was doing good. "Prepare yo' ass, puta. We doing that next."
Kyle's heart filled with dread at the thought of having to submit semi-willingly to being fucked
in the ass. He had thought for sure he'd be safe - he'd never lost a fistfight before coming to Brutewood
Correctional, but Gato was impossibly strong. He hadn't spoken to Greg or Lamar since that first day,
when he had stood up for Greg and they had both immediately abandoned him. Some small part of
him was satisfied that at least they were faring little better than him. Lamar was being sold for pennies
a blowjob, and his owner was even giving out coupons in the mess hall for men from other cell blocks
to come fuck him.
"Yo, puta, I said to prepare yo' ass, not sit there like a fucking cabron," Gato said, gesturing to
the ground.
Kyle didn't know what to do, but he tentatively got on the ground, looking up at Gato, who
motioned for him to roll over on his belly. Kyle did so, still looking up to get a sense of approval or
not. Gato snarled and grabbed Kyle's hips, pulling them up, then pushing his head down to the ground
with one bare, heavy foot. Gato pulled one of Kyle's arms back and pushed his fingers into his asshole.
Grimacing at the feel of his already ravaged asshole, which he imagined looked worn like the
whores he had seen in porn, he put one finger in, forcing his mind to think of the time he had gotten a
girl to finger and lick his ass, to remember how good that felt.
Bracing for the penetration that didn't come, Kyle realized that Gato wasn't yet ready
to fuck, and wasn't even looking at him fingering his own asshole. He was leaning on his bunk with
two other cholos, smoking cigarettes, looking through a magazine and listening to Spanish language
hip hop.
"Don't stop, puta," Gato said, "I want you nice and open for me."
When he finally did enter, Kyle wasn't expecting it, having focused on fitting a second
finger in his ass. Gato didn't pull Kyle's hand out, so for a second, the first few inches of his massive
cock shared Kyle's asshole with two of his fingers. But then he pulled his fingers out, and tried to
ignore the blinding pain that spread up from his rectum.
"Shout out that you want more," Gato said in between Spanish threats, "Come on, say
it. Tell everyone here how much of my cock you want."
"I... I," Kyle said, unable to catch his breath.
"Slide back on it, puta," Gato said, "And say it, go on. I ain't even gonna think about
cumming till you say it."
"I-" Kyle said, unable to bring himself to beg for cock in his ass, and indeed unable to
say much of anything due to the searing pain of his ass being split. Gato ashed his cigarette on Kyle's
back and thrust in farther. Kyle screamed.
"Yeah, scream it out like that so the whole fucking prison know who yo' owner is."
"I want it," Kyle spat venomously.
"Not like that, puta, shout it out like you want it. Tell them how much of my dick you
want."
"None of it, bastard!" Kyle shouted, his voice cracking.
All the men around him laughed like it was the funniest joke they had ever heard, and
Kyle looked up to see Officer Nabokov watching and laughing with them.
"You fucking say it or I'll rip your throat out and fuck it as you bleed to death all over
this cell, puta. Don't forget I own you now. Until you get out of here, I own you, and I got strings on
the parole board, so you might never get out unless I get tired of you. You fucking say what I want or
it will be the end of you."
"I want your dick!" Kyle screamed, tears finally cracking out of his eyes, "I want all of
your dick!"
"Where do you want it?"
"In my ass."
"Where do you want my cum?"
"In my ass."
"No, puta, you want it in yo' mouth. You always clean my dick off after it's been in yo'
ass. Or anyone's ass."
"In my mouth."
"Say it all again."
"I want your dick in my ass-"
"Use my name, puta."
"I want Gato's dick in my ass, and I want all of it in there, fucking me," Kyle said
through tears to the bright-eyed smiles of the couple dozen cholos who had gathered in the cell, "I
want him to cum in my mouth so I can clean his dick off."
All of the other prisoners in the cell applauded, led by Officer Nabokov, who was
grinning from ear to ear.
Gato's dick spouted cum in Kyle's ass, wave after wave of it filling him up. The
thought of all that splooge in his intestines made him vomit a little in his throat, which he did again
moments later when Gato pushed his assjuice-covered dick in Kyle's mouth. It tasted like cum and
shit, and Kyle gagged, no doubt would have thrown up except Gato had taken all his food today,
leaving him with a stomach empty except, now, for a mound of cum and his own anal fluid.
CHAPTER THREE
The Winner Is the Loser
Officer Nabokov was glad to see Kyle had that shit-eating smirk wiped off his face. It took
months for all traces of it to die away, but now it had been buried under stacks of dried spick cum. He
was the mewling shit-heap he should have realized he was when he first got to Brutewood
Correctional.
Nabokov had made a lot of money off Kyle, Lamar and Greg - he had always planned on taking
them to Cell Block Zulu so that they'd be fucked. As the block warden, Nabokov had sole discretion on
how to use the security video taken from their cells, and he'd found plenty of buyers willing to pay
handsomely for the result.
Not being gay himself, Nabokov didn't enjoy constantly being around naked men, but the pay
was good even before he was able to exploit his position for additional gains. He was good at finding
ways to profit from the inmates in his control within the rules of Brutewood Correctional, which
allowed him great latitude to help prisoners find jobs they could do from the inside and didn't ask
questions if those jobs were of a prurient nature. The locals all knew they could fuck an inmate for a
few bucks, and many of them took advantage of the opportunity.
He ignored the pleas of Kyle and his friends for six months, pretending he didn't remember
their conversation in the corridor. The day he decided to bring it up he saw Kyle being dragged across
the exercise yard by Gato, who appeared to have just retrieved him from Cell Block Whiskey, which
housed most of the black gangs. Kyle had been beaten black and blue, and was obviously in pain,
unable to walk quickly enough for Gato.
"Please, can I suck your dick now? Transfer me," Kyle asked when he saw Nabokov, who
chuckled.
Nabokov only shook his head and said, "I was only kidding about all that. I was always going
to bring you here. You looked liked you needed to be put in your place."
"I did! You were right, please," Kyle said.
"Well, now I'm making a shitload of money off you," Nabokov said, "Somebody has hired me
to shoot something called a Facefuckathon."
Kyle started crying at the word and begged for a second chance, but Nabokov only got all of
his inmates together and ready. Each gang and nationality provided a team of twenty men and one
bitch, and they facefucked until all twenty came. Whichever's bitch's face was the messiest, most
covered in cum and fluids, would win - or rather, his masters would win a few bucks.
Gato provided Kyle to his cellmates, the Mexicans, while Carcayu hired out Greg to the Puerto
Ricans and Parra leased Lamar to the highest bidder, the Colombians. All three of them had been
fucked into submission by this point, and it barely even seemed to register as they hung their heads
and walked alongside Officer Nabokov to the appropriate spot. He could sense their seething hatred
for them, and a part of him reveled in it.
"Bet you three never thought you'd be the bottom in a Facefuckathon. I'm thinking about
making it a monthly event. We'll see how much money I make selling the film rights I guess. But
anyway, we can always just do it for fun," Nabokov said, laughing as all three winced, shying away
from him.
They settled into place in a very large weight room, full of barbells and bench presses, plenty
big enough to hold the two hundred tops and twenty bottoms, not to mention dozens of guards and
cameramen. Nabokov had been assigned to be security for the Puerto Rican team, so he settled in to
watch Greg, who wearily climbed onto a bench, letting his head hang slightly backwards. Almost
every team had chosen that position, Nabokov saw, for its superior gag-possibility.
The leader of the Rican Locos, as they called themselves, was a horse-hung thickly built
Nuyorican named Vega. He had cruel flinty eyes and a square jaw, bulging tattooed muscles and a
throaty, menacing voice. Vega assigned another young man to go first, a seemingly weak starter, and
Nabokov was intrigued.
Vega spoke in English, as they had all been instructed to do to the best of their abilities, "We
gonna make this esse throw up, alright, every time you thrust get it all the way back there. We gotta
cover this bitch's face. Cover that shit."
The skinny young tattooed cholo, who looked only barely eighteen, jammed his long, skinny
cock straight in, and Greg immediately started gagging.
"Spit it up, puta, spit it up."
Greg's mouth was foaming as the young bucking Puerto Rican smacked his belly, trying to
provoke a bigger gag. A giant spot and spit bubble flew out of Greg's nose, landing on his face. "Good,
bueno, bueno," said Vega, "More of that. More of that, esses."
The young cholo pulled out to cum, and Vega took the opportunity to pepper Greg's face with
thick wads of spit, hocking phlegm onto his face. His face was already revolting, Nabokov thought,
and it was only the second facefucker.
Next up was a more muscular young thug, with wide inked thighs and biceps. He massaged
Greg's throat with his hands while he fucked his mouth, screaming at Greg to take all of it down. He
tried, and Nabokov could even see the tip of the facefucker's cock pushing against the skin of Greg's
neck. The young white man's skin was turning a bright red, and his whole body bucked, held down by
a couple of cholos at each limb. Greg's lithe young muscles strained as he panicked for lack of air.
The thug took his dick out long enough for Greg to take two deep, hoarse, rattling breaths, and
then stabbed his throat again, his dickhead now even more transparent in Greg's stretched neck.
"Faster, we ain't got much time," Vega said.
A few seconds later the thug finally came, too quick to pull his dick out. Nabokov marveled at
how tight the young jock's throat was, and he could see the thick cockhead pulsating under the skin,
shooting hot jets of warm cum straight down his throat. As he withdrew his dick, Greg retched, the
cum coming back up and shooting out his mouth and spreading across his face like a semen-bomb. He
choked and gasped for air, but was penetrated moments later by the soft dick of the next thug, an older
Puerto Rican named Lucio.
Lucio had heavy, dangling balls and a powerful chest with an old man belly, covered in gray-
tipped fur.
Vega turned to the young weak kid, the thug who had gone first and seemed out-of-place
among the older, more experienced men. "You," he said, "Start fluffing the next guy."
The kid stuttered and said, "Man, I ain't no bitch!"
"The niggers are winning," Nabokov said, inventing it to see if they'd believe it.
"See?" Vega shouted, "I am making that money, now get your ass in the air so someone can
fuck it. I want their dick stinking of asshole in his mouth." Vega looked at Nabokov and explained,
"He's more likely to throw up that way."
"I'm having a great time, Greg, thanks for doing this," Nabokov said, "But I'm gonna go check
on your friends."
Nabokov wandered to the other side of the hall, where he watched the Colombians, who had
paid top dollar for Lamar. Their leader, who went by Merco, had explained it to the cameras: "Our
cum will show up better on dark skin. That'll help us in judging."
It seemed to be true as well. So much cum was smeared all over Lamar's face he looked like a
black man in whiteface. Merco's other innovative idea was to make two of his twenty tops be bottom
bitches back in the cell. They had been fucked by a dozen men each right before the Facefuckathon,
and their asses had been filled with loads of sperm, which they farted right onto Lamar's gagging face
at the start of the match. A few guards had already caught the cumfart explosion on their cameras and
were playing it on an infinite loop, laughing at Lamar's expression as he saw the thick wads of cum
exploding from two hairy assholes and landing on his face, nose and eyes.
One of the bitches was assigned to keeping the men's balls from hitting Lamar's face as he was
fucked, not wanting to smear any of the cum off. That bitch was also assigned to spit on Lamar's face
and hold a bowl under his head, planning on dropping the spillover on his head at the last moment.
Gato had had some bright ideas of his own when he learned the rules of the Facefuckathon.
Nabokov watched the match finish up there, smiling at Kyle's pained, pitiful eyes. Gato had let every
man he could find cum on Kyle's face all morning and hadn't let him wash off, so he was covered in a
layer of dried cum even before Gato's men started blowing their loads all over him. The last few men
were finishing up now, and Kyle was falling unconscious from lack of oxygen due to the constant dick
in his mouth, his fuckers egged on by Gato, who demanded constant face-penetrating.
As the last cholo fucked Kyle's face, Gato and another man pissed on him, their steamy urine
mixing with the cum that had pooled across his face. Kyle threw up, but his stomach was empty, and
he could only dry heave and spit up a few cumwads.
Finally the Facefuckathon was over, and the guards deliberated. The winner was unanimous:
Lamar, whose face and entire upper body was covered with the cum of a hundred men, along with spit,
his own body fluid and assjuices. He had to be physically held down to "receive" the award, which was
a small trophy in the shape of a cup. It was filled with yet more cum, which Lamar drank to the
chanting and goading of the cholos who stood and watched, their sweaty muscles still heaving from
the exertion, floppy wet dicks hanging between their legs.
Finally, Nabokov decided, it was time to move the boys to some safer cells.
The Salty Mango Salsa Club is the spiciest collection of Latino men gay erotica around! Full of the
hottest hombres, cholos and vatos you could ever imagine, every story is sure to stand your pepper on
end!
The Salty Mango Salsa Club is an open franchise from Eroticature.org
, which means it consists
of stories and ideas contributed by authors and readers like you.
The best way to read the stories of the Salty Mango Salsa Club are through the compilations,
Salty Mangos Taste So Sweet, Vol. 1
and
Salty Mangos Taste So Sweet, Vol. 2
. Below are only a
small sample of the available stories, but these are best-selling and sexiest among them!
: Raoul is desperate to fit in among los Alcachutres, a powerful
Latin gang known for its cruelty, thirst for profit and adherence to old-fashioned traditions like respect
for one's elders. He soon learns that there's more to being a loyal Alcachutre than keeping quiet when
the cops start asking questions, and Raoul is forced to stoop to outrageously erotic depths in order to
make his way in the gang. Will he have the balls to do what needs to be done? He's not sure, but he's
about to find out...
Men of the New Mexico State Prison
: Fresh-faced inmate Ryan Timson struggles to find a
place in the prison hierarchy, settling into the arms of one of the many macho cholos that fill up the
bunks around him. His name is El Oso, and he is proudly heterosexual, dripping with machismo. He
never thought he'd come to appreciate a man's caress, but soon discovers that Ryan's skills come in
handy behind bars. Together the two explore the depths of masculinity in this passionate tale of
jailhouse lust.
Glory Days: The Mexican Soccer Star
: Hector Morez is a former soccer star in his native
Mexico, adored by his fans and even by his opponents. But after the ravages of time and stress, he has
found himself in the United States, running a soccer camp for children and dreaming about returning
to the game he loved on a professional level. Though straight himself, Hector has always been willing
to swing the other way, and he pursues relationships with other soccer players throughout his career.
Their toned bodies and athletic physiques help him get sexual relief without resorting to a woman. But
when he gets desperate for a way out and applies for a coaching position with a pro team, Hector sees
the possibility to build a life of his dream.
<<<<>>>>
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