A football hooligan meets his match

The copper

 However did I get into HMP Tooting?

First, I made acquaintances with a copper, but not as part of a giant plan. After taking out time to train to fight Karl, I was getting back into my old routine. Gus had gone back to his girl-friend, and I was back out on the site in wet and windy autumn weather. As it was getting darker early, I was getting down to the gym earlier, and working out as hard as ever. There were a few new faces, including one big bear of a bloke who seemed to know what he was doing but looked a bit out of sorts. I would have put him at about forty, and he was doing a lot of cardio work. He had obviously been told to lose weight. Me, I like a man to be big and beefy, but that isn’t always good for your health. Close up, he was slightly over six feet high, very hairy, and not bad-looking with a bald head and thick beard. I thought, not bad, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, but didn’t give out or get back any vibes that he might be gay. He looked actually very straight, but you can’t tell. Anyway, after my session the big bear joined me in the sauna. I started chatting. Sitting on a towel on wooden slats with everything hanging out in uncomfortable heat is conducive to talking.

Anyway, it turns out he’s a copper, a sergeant in the Met. Me, having no criminal record, although by rights I should have a long sheet of convictions for actual bodily harm, grievous bodily harm and assault, only because I fight other thugs after football matches, I am impressed. I like a bear in uniform, and from the sauna I can see he’s got a serviceable truncheon. It also turns out he’s single, as his wife ran off recently with the kids, and he felt it was time to get in shape and turn his life around. I told him how often I trained and when, and said I worked on a building site. I didn’t expect to see him again, as it’s amazing how many men are as keen as mustard for a week and then give up.

Second, I got the copper into bed. His name is Jim. I had picked up that, by an amazing coincidence, his gym times were similar to mine, and he often overlapped with me in the sauna. Either he would be in there stark naked (he had worn swimming trunks the first time, which he took off during the session) or come in when I was in. Once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Third time it’s deliberate. To test this, I told him I was working out later the next time I was there, and to no surprise, Jim arrived there after me. I timed my work-out perfectly so that I finished at exactly the same time, and we both found ourselves in the showers together. What a coincidence! Not. We were chatting and laughing about something when I just started rubbing soap into his hairy back. It’s a trick I’ve used before.  I looked down at his furry crack and yearned to get my tongue down there, parting his big meaty buttocks and working his little rosebud hole. I was expecting him to say something, but he just let me carry on until I had soaped his whole back. I strayed down to his hairy white buttocks, and still there was no protest, so I ran a soapy hand along his crack and the other went round to his erecting cock. I suddenly took it away.

“Sorry,” I said, though not meaning it, “I couldn’t resist.”

PC Plod laughed: “I liked it. But maybe not here.”

He was a bit reluctant at first for me to go round his place, but I have a perfect flat for this so he came round mind after his shift ended, in uniform, complete with handcuffs and a truncheon. I put that thought to one side, and let Jim in. He looked like a fantasy come true, if very nervous.

“The neighbours will think I’m helping you with your enquiries if you don’t arrest me for something,” I joked.

We embraced and kissed. Jim knew how to kiss, as any man who has been married to a woman does, but he was hesitant kissing a man for the first time, at least for a few moments. He wasn’t one of those married men who will do anything except kiss, as that’s for the missus only. He then kissed me fully, tongue pushing inside. My cock started to harden in my boxers. I was only wearing a singlet vest and boxer shorts, whereas Jim was in full uniform and very lumpy. His big hands were moving towards my nipples.

Something else with a married man: they know how to do tit work. I’d tried a woman’s tits out when I was younger, and soon learned that size was good to look at but it was often girls with flattish chests and sensitive nipples who responded best. Married men also took to sucking cock quite well, as they know what they want on the receiving end, but arses are usually a complete mystery. Jim had my vest off and was knurling my nips like a pro. I put a hand on his cock hidden behind his uniform trousers, and it was getting bigger.

“Bedroom. Now,” I ordered.

“Yes sir,” he smiled back.

I actually wanted to get his cock out and suck him there, but I had soon realised that trying to get his flies open with several kilograms and hundreds of pounds’ worth of Metropolitan Police equipment waving about my head wasn’t an option. (“So, Darren, how did you come to be tasered?” “Well, I was trying to get the arresting officer’s cock out of his pants to nosh it when the bloody thing accidentally went off.”). I dropped my boxer shorts and jumped naked on the bed, gently stroking myself whilst Sergeant Jim undressed.

Stab-proof vest, belt holding all his equipment, black Doc Marten shoes, socks, trousers, jumper, shirt, vest and anything else ended up in a heap on the floor. He was now standing there naked, a big, hairy, beefy, virgin cop with an erection. He joined me on the bed, and we kissed again, lying on our sides. It was now time to take control. I made him lie on his back and straddled him, feeling his cock brush against the cheeks of my arse, but no way was it going in there yet. I leaned forward and kissed him deeply, taking his wrists in my hands and moving his arms up so that his hands were behind his head. His forearms were thick and hairy. I licked and nibbled his ears, tongued his ear holes, nibbled his neck, and moved down to enjoy his exposed hairy armpits. He had showered at the station before coming round to mine, but had not used an anti-perspirant, so his pits smelled clean but also of fresh sweat. I licked them and loved the way he was relaxing and enjoying himself. I moved down to his nipples, licking, biting, nibbling and sucking them, making him writhe with pleasure, but still I would not let him respond. I moved my tongue down his tummy, along the trail of hair, but to tease him I by-passed his throbbing cock and moved down to his feet. I looked at them first, but they were in good condition, not callused, and I began sucking the toes and gently tickling the soles. It drove him mad. Eventually he sat up and reached for me, and I was on top of him again, kissing him, but this time I laid him on his back and began sucking his cock. He wasn’t a big man, just average, and his cock was averagely thick, but it had been carefully circumcised when he was a baby, and tasted good. It rose out of a thick bush of pubes over a big slack ballbag. Hair is fine: I always say I prefer pubes shaved off, but a clean bush is nice. I moved my mouth up and down over the shaft, but worked it so well he came in a couple of minutes, squirting his warm spunk into me. I swallowed it, and turned him on his side, spooning him, my cock now knocking at the door of his arse.

“That was the best blowjob I have ever had,” he said, relaxed. I let him doze for a few minutes, but I hadn’t finished. We kissed, stroked each other, and played with each other’s nipples and cocks. He was soon erect again, but this time I turned him on his front, pulling his cock so that it was pointing towards his toes, and now I straddled him again, tonguing the entire length of his hairy spine to make him shiver, then parting his hairy arse cheeks to tongue his cherry rosebud hole. After a few minutes of my tongue he was writhing and moaning, and I knew the moment had come to break him in. I took the lube from besides the bed, fingered his hole until it was slippery and yielding, and then mounted him, pushing my cock slowly but firmly inside him. He gasped, but I sensed no pain.

I rode him till I came, exploding with pleasure, and lay on top of him, nuzzling the hair at the top of his back before I withdrew and lay besides him. He cuddled me, and I felt good.

And so, our relationship began.

Third, I asked some questions about being put on remand. There is a novel written by Jeffrey Archer in which the hero of the book commits a crime in order to get into prison. Jim was occupying the major half of my bed, and far too dozy to get why I was talking about what I was talking about, which was how to get into HMP Tooting on remand. What would I have to do and where? He told me the kind of offence I would have to do and where. Thanks, Jim, I thought, and fucked him for the last time.

Fourth, I got caught and put on remand. That was the fun part. I went out to south London and found a rough-looking bar in one of the grottier areas of Kingston. I bought several beers, although as I don’t drink, indeed I cannot drink, I craftily fed the beer to various plants around the pub and took glasses to the toilet to pout the liquid away. I took my shirt off and sat there in a singlet vest, muscles bulging and tribal tattoos on show. I started to stare at some of the blokes in there. It was fucking hard work trying to start a fight, but in the end a couple of blokes objected to me staring at them and challenged me. I started hitting out, beating three of them up until the old bill called and yours truly was arrested, read my rights, and put in a cell overnight. To my surprise and delight, I was up before the beak in the morning, refused bail and taken in a police van to HMP Tooting.

Locked up

I wasn’t too thrilled about being put on remand in HMP Tooting, but it earned me the chance to even things up with Jameel, who had had a lot of fun with me that time, but who might now pay a price for it. Despite being a hooligan keen on a fight, and being built big and hard, I had never been inside a prison before, and underneath I was slightly nervous, to begin with. I wasn’t a member of a gang and I wasn’t a nonce, which was a good start, and I hoped that being the size I am would stop any bullying, though of course, there are people that try and pick a fight with a big lad precisely because they are big and hard. I could also read and write and didn’t take drugs, which separated me from the saddest lot of illiterates and the mentally ill. At some point I would be off remand and sentenced, probably back there, so I needed to follow the code, whatever that was.

I was taken to the prison’s reception area. I have never taken drugs and I have an intolerance of alcohol, so I didn’t need help there, and my clothing was sorted out. I was on remand, not convicted, so I was wearing a mixture of my own stuff with prison uniform. A prison officer listed out what I had brought with me, which wasn’t much, and it was put in a safe place, after I had signed for it.

Now came the full body search. I took my kit off and folded it up as willingly as if I was about to take a shower: there wasn’t any point in being prudish, as I was about to become just a number, and in any case the prison officer, the screw, was a hot number, with a shaved head and big muscular arms, tattooed in a tribal-style, hanging out of his pristine short-sleeved white shirt, though sadly there was a big gold wedding ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.  I didn’t have any medical problems which made it difficult to have a full body search, apart from the fact that I was likely to get an erection if this bloke touched me up, so he checked me out. Bending over and having this screw stick a lubricated finger in a blue disposable glove up my arse to check if I had secreted in a mobile phone or drugs or something was about as good as it was going to get, especially when he hit my prostate. A pity. He could have fucked me then and there.

I don’t have any health problems and I wasn’t on any meds and I don’t have any substance problems. I fight with other hooligans to get my fix, which is why I was there. I didn’t feel upset or worried, just a bit apprehensive. I didn’t want to ‘phone my family just yet.

I was now given a prison number, and taken to my cell, which I was going to be sharing with a person who wasn’t there at that time, so I took the option of taking a shower. I did wonder whether I might have to fight off a gang of rapists if I dropped the soap, but firstly the couple of men in the showers looked about as dangerous as kittens and secondly the only reason I’d fight them off is that I didn’t want anybody thinking I was in any way effeminate. I could cope with a gang-rape, just not the aftermath. I dressed. I now met other staff, and had an interview with a personal officer. My fingerprints were taken, along with my photograph, and I was told more about prison life and what to do. They went on for a bit. I just wanted some food and some sleep.

It suits the government if people think that prison is an Escape from New York- style island of savages who are going to rip you to shreds as soon as you walk through the door, or you’re going to be meeting somebody like Charles Bronson. You do see violence. Most violence happens in relation either to gang stuff or against sex offenders. If somebody's a rapist or a child abuser, they'll get a kettle poured over their head. If you put sugar in a kettle, when you pour it over someone's head it increases the boiling point and melts the skin off their face. Otherwise, it was like a quiet night in town.

Cell mate

They put me in with an enforcer for a gang, Danny, who like everybody else there, was innocent of his alleged crimes, although he and I both knew that he was guilty as hell. I liked him immediately. He was also on remand, but, unlike me, he was going to have the benefit of some top-class barristers working on his case, as the gang wanted him back out working for them. The fact that he had such lawyers implied guilt to me, but then I was going to have to make do with a legal aid lawyer and rather a lot of video evidence of me beating up two blokes.

Of that, though, more later. I was here for Jameel.

Jameel

I spotted Jameel eating with some other cons quite soon after I arrived there, sitting eating with a nasty-looking group of cons who were being watched over carefully by the screws. He looked my way once, but he didn’t look again. There wasn’t any sign of recognition. I guess if you see me stark naked, hooded and bound with a cock in my arse and mouth you might not recognise me in prison uniform eating prison shit from a tray. He seemed to have a few mates, black guys who looked like they were in for minor offences rather than the Mr. Bigs of the drugs world, and I carefully watched his routine.

The one part of his routine you could rely on was his visits to the gym. I was also keen to use the gym, and as one of the biggest blokes in the prison I wasn’t challenged. Indeed, it was nice to get into a routine of squats, deadlifts, bench presses, pull-ups, extensions, curls, presses and all of the other exercises I did, especially in such a rough atmosphere. The testosterone in the air surely made me more competitive, and whilst in a commercial gym I had to wear a top, here I could work out topless. You soon worked out who was gay or gay for the stay by the way they looked at you, and that included Jameel, not that I was going to try anything on with him in a sweaty prison gym.

I worked hard on getting his confidence by training with him, a little at a time. I knew Jameel had a good, strong, muscled body, but like a lot of black guys, his legs, particularly the calf muscles, didn’t develop like a white guy like me. I made him work on his legs till he was in agony, but as they grew bigger, he accepted I knew what I was talking about.

I had a difficult moment when he noticed the West Ham tattoo on my back.

“I’m Millwall,” he said, quietly, pointing at his forearm.

“In here, mate, you can support the Big Girls’ Blouses playing in shocking pink for all I care,” I replied. “If we were on the terraces I might try and kick your head in.”

Jameel laughed: “Nar…I’d get you first!”

Another little step was made. We trained more. Then came the day when “I had something for him…”

It was a trap of course. I explained to my cellmate that I had a bit of business with one of the cons, which went back to something in the past. He said he’d take a walk. I also had a word with the warden. Jameel followed me to my cell and didn’t seethe punch coming which knocked him out cold.

The last one is fucked

My cellmate was taking a walk somewhere because I had told him too, and the warden was turning a blind eye, partly bribed and partly threatened. The cell door was locked, and Jameel and I were on the inside, on our own. I tied his wrists to the metal posts at the end of the bunk bed, covered his mouth in duct tape, pulled off his trainers and sock, his trousers and underpants, and cut off his T-shirt before tying his ankles to the metal posts at the bottom of the bed. I now brought him round. It was very sexy to see him struggle, to see his eyes grow big with fear, but there was nothing he could do except grunt. I ran a hand over his back and his arse cheeks, and put it underneath to straighten out his cock. I felt both his nipples, twisted them hard and pulled, and felt him writhe.

“Remember me?” I said. “West Ham lad you four fuckers got in a van and then gang-raped?”

More writhing and grimacing, but I could smell fresh sweat. You aren’t allowed belts in prison, and there was no way I could get hold of a cane, so I resorted to smacking his arse with my hand about as hard as I could, until he was tying himself up in agony. Beneath the chocolatey skin of his arse cheeks I could see reddening. I felt underneath, felt that his cock was as stiff as a wooden broomstick, and squeezed his balls hard until he let out a muffled yelp. I burrowed a hand between his arse cheeks and reached again for his cock and balls, pulling his cock so that it pointed towards his bare feet, and began to work saliva into his hot hole with my thumb. I stopped and moved round to his face.

“Scream the place down and the guard’ll see me cutting your bollocks off,” I said quietly as I slipped the gag. “Now lick yourself off my thumb, you cunt.”

Jameel licked my thumb obediently. When I felt it was clean, I put the gag back on. I had a small jar of petroleum jelly which I opened, and pushed a thick gobbet of it into his tight hole. I worked it in enough so that I could get my cock in him, but not enough so that it wouldn’t hurt. I climbed on to Jameel, spread his arse cheeks and pushed my cock in. It was going to hurt, but that was the intention. I felt him stiffen with pain as I broke into his hole, that deep pain which takes a while to go away, and he was crying into his gag. I did keep still with my throbbing helmet in his arse, and as I sensed the pain subside, I pushed myself in all the way. I owned him now. I began to pump slowly, feeling his arse yield and open up to me. Jameel was impaled on my cock. I pushed my hands under his chest and held him to me as I pumped harder and harder. His hole had stopped fighting me, and felt nice and slippery. The cunt was loving it. I took my time, stopping and starting, adjusting position, but all the time trying to thrust my cock through him. In a few minutes it was too much. I began to pump harder and harder, feeling the spunk building up in the base of my cock, the moment of pleasure-pain when I orgasmed, and the joy of shooting two bollock-fulls of hot spunk deep into Jameel’s guts. The cunt had been making noises. I reached down and felt his cock. The end was wet and sticky, as the cunt must have come too when I was fucking him. I withdrew. I clambered off the bed and stood in front of Jameel, and pulled away the gag. I pushed my cock into his warm wet mouth and told him to clean himself off my cock. He obeyed, licking it so beautifully that I started to get hard again.

This time I face-fucked him as hard as I could, making him gag a few times before I shot a second load of spunk, this time down his throat.

I pulled on my prison sweatshirt, jeans, socks and trainers.

“That’s all four of you,” I said quietly. “You four fuckers kidnapped me and I have now fucked every one of you. You are all my bitches if I ever want any of you. Now, I’m going to let you go. That was a nice fuck, but you keep out of my way. You don’t want it getting out that you’re my bitch, do you?”

With that, I let Jameel out of his ropes, watched him dress and go.

The enforcer

Danny, my cellmate, went for trial and I didn’t see him again. He was as guilty as fuck, but it isn’t enough just to be guilty. The prosecution has to put its case, which the defence can challenge, and then it’s up to a jury of twelve good men and true such as you might find on a Clapham Omnibus to find you guilty or not. Danny’s brief was a top-notch barrister, a Nigerian woman, and to make sure he got out, a key witness had a change of heart just before the trial. It happens.

A week later, I had a visit from a man in a smart three-piece suit, expensive shoes and a camel hair coat, who had eyes that were dead. He had a proposition. He needed an enforcer to collect debts. I could do time and go back to my job on the building site, or I could join his crew, get a top brief, find that the witnesses suddenly could not remember things so clearly, put on a suit and collect debts however I wanted. I could ask nicely, beat them to death or fuck them to death. It didn’t matter. I said I would think about it. Could I have a week?

Sure, I could have a week.

In the end, I said yes. The case against me collapsed, and I was out, but what happened next is another story.