Doing Time

Four months later, the over-worked judge had at least five other cases running, when mine landed on the docket. Me hitting a restrained man and stopping his heart in front of thirty witnesses earnt me nine years for murder-two. It dropped to seven with good behavior because I was defending a kid against a known bully.

I could have fought it, but ran the real risk of landing a decade as a new sentence. I braced myself and accepted this was as good as I was going to get.

I was shipped to Woodslea Prison at twenty-three years of age, with no chance of appeal. My father came to the trial and with a compassionate visit, we spoke of what happened. I’m sure he was disappointed that a second of his sons had ended up in jail, but accepted that it was what it was, and his offspring, while not completely innocent, was not a murderer.

Woodslea Penitentiary had only been open a month. Brand new, it was built to house 3000 inmates who ranged from trustees to death row. Several county prisons were being consolidated into the new facility and it would be another few months before the place was full. I scored a second-level cell in the far back corner of the fourth block. I considered my accommodation to be pretty lucky, it was as private as you could ever get in a jail. Cell assignments didn’t change, this was to be my space for seven years.

As a two-person cubicle, I would be getting a cell mate at some point. For the first month though, I had the place to myself.

My four months in the remand jail had shown me quickly how a prison functioned, I often found myself again, using my fists. I dispatched my aggressors with relative ease, and settled into the background of a structured routine in a constant environment. I found myself thinking more and more about my stifled sexual development, fuck, I was constantly horny. It eventually dawned on me, that if I was going to be fucking men for the rest of my life, then prison may not be such a bad place to make up for lost time, I made a start.

My building’s wing, was effectively a prison within a prison, we never mixed with any of the other three wings, not even exercise yards. Even though we were separated I was sure just as we did, they’d have their share of grandstanders, pimps, thugs and of course punks. I took note of who was who and quickly worked out those I could score sexual relief from, when the urge took me.

* * *

Harlen Gruller was a man who no one in Pensworth Prison messed with. At twenty-seven he had spent a total of eight years in custody in three separate stints, starting with robbery and assault at just seventeen. Over the years he had developed into a sadistic bastard, with a passion for torture and rape. At six foot and 200 pounds, he had the body and fighting skills to invariably get what he wanted.

His hapless cell mates were transformed into empty vessels which he used and filled at will. They spent hours on their knees servicing anyone Gruller sold their bodies to. Anything the customer wanted, they got, no matter how sick or degrading.

Gruller held no interest in his slave’s welfare, he simply focused on what lined his pockets. When he was bored or business was slow, he would play with his captives like cats do with mice. He’d tie them up in excruciating positions, then fuck them with discarded coke bottles. He’d burn their balls with cigarettes, daring them to move, if they did, they’d endure a beating. Sexually, he was as straight as a cross desert highway, but years in prison meant that while he would rather fuck women, any hole would do.

He was two and a half years down a ten-year road, with no chance of early release for good behaviour. With the Pensworth dump closing down, he would serve his incarceration balance at Woodslea. He actually looked forward to a bigger population. More criminal contacts, more meat to sell and fuck.

He delighted in all aspects of degrading those around him. His routine of terror on new victims had been homed over time, it was typified by remaining aloof on first introductions. His intention was to present himself as somewhat of a riddle. Information snippet by information snippet he would then remove all mystery, and enlighten his prey on exactly what their life was going to be like.

Many cellmates dismissed him, others tried to fight the aggressor, more begged the guards to be shifted to another cell. To date, all had ended up living the horror life Gruller had described during their first conversation.

Pensworth closed down four weeks after I arrived at Woodslea. Over a period of days everything that could be moved, was transferred to our wing. Gruller was given a cell on the second level, right at the back.

* * *

I detected someone’s presence in my cell as I returned from lunch. I figured it would be my new cell mate, the wing had been a hive of activity all day. As I rounded the entrance and made eye contact with Gruller. I was taken aback; he was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. High cheek bones, broad shoulders, a full head of dark brown hair with a slight curl. He had just removed his shirt and revealed an impressive chest to match his bulging biceps and superb six pack abs. He was more than an imposing figure; he was fucken gorgeous!

I put out my hand, glad to at last have some company. He looked at it and kept unpacking his kit. I noticed that most of my stuff which had been stacked on the cell shelving was scattered on my bunk. This was about to get very interesting.

“How long you in for boy?” He asked, obviously aware that there was an age difference.

“Seven years.” I replied, before pointing to my stuff. “You want to explain this?” I asked. He remained silent. This guy was odd, and I wasn’t sure of my next move. In the seconds I pondered this, he stopped mid task and took up a stance blocking off the rear half of the cell. He began what turned out to be a graphic prediction of how he expected our future as cell mates to play out.

“There are new rules in here, punk,” he spat. “For starters this is now my fucken cell and whatever I say goes.” He paused. “In the next few minutes, you’re going to be bent over that sink and getting fucked so hard you’ll wish you were dead. You won’t be dead, but I’ve got news for you, you’ll be in hell!”

He was very sure of himself, I wondered how many other men had heard these words.

“You need to understand that, you belong to me now,” he continued. “That means that when I sell your arse, your mouth or any other part of you I want, I keep the cash and you do as you’re told.”

I’m dealing with a bully here.” I thought with clarity.

“Is that all the rules I asked?” I asked, carefully.

“You wish”, he snorted. “In this room you stay buck naked, I see you with a stitch of clothing on you, you’re dead. You shave every fucken hair of that puny body, and you keep this place spotless.” He again paused for dramatic effect. “In case you haven’t worked it out, you’re my fucken slave, my property! You’d better get used of it”.

This event was genuinely fascinating. Here I was in my cell with one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen, and he had just given an amazing display of chest beating. I decided there and then, here was the man I would use to bring me up to speed on all aspects of man-to-man sex. I felt myself firm in my prison jeans.

“Now get over there and get your fucken gear off”. He pointed towards the sink.

“Can I ask some questions?” I quizzed, trying to sound as timid as I could. I’d already decided that if I was going to do this, then I may as well do it properly, and have fun along the way.

“Shoot punk, after this you never speak, less I say so”. He barked.

“What if I beg and plead for you not to do this to me, will that make any difference?”

“Not one fucken bit!” He spat back.

“In six months, if I’ve done everything you ask, can I have some freedom?”

“Listen punk, are you hard of hearing?” he asked, as he turned to fully face me. “I’m here for another eight, you’re going to suck my dick as hard on the last day, as you will be in five minutes.”

“If you own me does that mean I’m not allowed to wank off? I questioned, laying the first traces of my trap.

“See you’re catching on real quick, your cum is mine. It stays in your balls.”

“What if I fight you?” I asked, changing tact.

“Fight me?” he puffed up. “Punk, I want you to fight me, you need to know right now who’s boss. Of course, knowing I’m boss won’t stop me from using you as a practice bag, you know, keeping myself in tune, staying sharp”.

He grew still to make sure his next point was highlighted as critical for my well-being.

“Know this, if you test me. I’ll drag you down to the showers and beat you in front of the whole wing.” He took a breath. “That way everyone will know your arse is up for grabs and whoever wants, can take it when they feel the need. You think it’s going to be hell in here, I can show you a hell much worse!”

“Now get your fucken clothes off, I’m not going to ask again.” He instructed. I cowered for effect.

“Just two more questions.” I pleaded, “what do I call you?”

“Good question punk. You call me Master, and anyone I’m with, Sir”. He stopped to lock eyes. “Last question boy, lay it out there”.

“Ok,” I started, “do you want to take back anything you’ve said, or possibly plead not really meaning it?”

He stiffened and thrust his chest out as if deeply offended.

“Wow, now you’re in for a whipping.’ He threatened “I never take shit back, and I meant every word. You’re fucken crazy to speak to me that way, now my fists are going to finish this conversation.”