Jack’s difficult night with Drake
Morning light sliced through the cell’s narrow window, cold and accusing. Jack woke to an empty bunk below—Andrew was gone, the silence heavy. His eyes drifted to the corner, where Andrew’s cum-stained boxers lay, crumpled and stiff, a relic of that primal night. Jack’s pulse quickened, his body stirring before his mind could protest. He slid off the bunk, bare feet on icy concrete, and hesitated. Then, as if pulled by an unseen force, he grabbed the boxers, the fabric heavy with Andrew’s scent—musk, salt, raw maleness. He brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply, the aroma flooding his senses like a hit of coke. His cock hardened, straining against the jumpsuit, and a low moan slipped from his lips. Sinking onto Andrew’s bunk, he pressed the boxers to his face, sniffing again, each breath a descent into madness. His hand found his groin, stroking through the fabric, the friction sending jolts through him. He licked the boxers, tasting the faint bitterness of Andrew’s cum, and his body shuddered, precum soaking his clothes. He came hard, the boxers clutched to his face, shame and ecstasy colliding in his chest. He hid the evidence, but the act became a ritual. For a week, Jack surrendered to it—each morning, when Andrew left for the yard, Jack would take the boxers, sniffing, licking, masturbating in a frenzy of guilty pleasure. The cell was his confessional, Andrew’s scent his sin. He hated himself, but the need was insatiable, his body craving what his mind refused to accept.By Monday, Jack’s presence in Blackthorn had rippled through the inmate grapevine. The rich boy with the chiseled jaw and gym-honed body was no longer a ghost. Whispers followed him in the mess hall, eyes tracing his broad shoulders, his piercing blue eyes. Hot. Loaded. Fresh. At 2 p.m., lunch was a chaos of clattering trays and predatory laughs. Jack ate alone, his slop untouched, his mind on the boxers hidden under his mattress. The weight of stares was heavier now, the air thick with hunger. Shower time came, the steam curling like a lover’s touch, the tiles slick under his feet. Jack stripped, water cascading over his pecs, his abs, the V of his hips, his body a weapon now exposed. Then, from a nearby stall, came screams—loud, desperate, not the usual moans. Jack froze, his heart hammering. He knew instantly: Drake and Jane. But today was different. Jane’s voice was sharp, pleading. “Stop, Drake, please!” A wet slap, a grunt of frustration. Jack edged closer, peering through the steam. Two of Drake’s men stood guard, their eyes cold. Inside, Jane was pinned against the tiles, his wiry frame trembling as Drake, 6’3” of scarred menace, loomed over him. Jane pushed back, weak against Drake’s chest, but Drake was in heat, his movements rough, unsatisfied. The screams risked drawing guards, and Drake’s jaw tightened. A sharp smack echoed, and Jane stumbled out, tears streaking his face, bikini and panties clinging to his wet skin.Jack’s gaze shifted, and there it was—Drake’s cock, a thick, black masterpiece, glistening with Jane’s saliva, pulsing with unspent need. It was a work of art, a symbol of Drake’s power, and Jack couldn’t look away. His own cock twitched, a traitor. Drake’s eyes met his, dark and piercing, catching Jack’s stare. A smirk curled Drake’s lips, and he pointed to one of his men. Rough hands grabbed Jack, pulling him into the stall. Drake stood naked, his scarred body a map of violence, his cock still hard, a challenge. “Name, pretty boy?” His voice was a velvet threat. “Jack,” he muttered, throat dry. “Cellmate’s Andrew.” Drake’s smirk widened, eyes raking Jack’s body—chest, abs, the bulge in his towel. “Andrew don’t share,” he said, stepping closer, heat radiating. “You like what you saw?” Jack’s mind screamed to deny it, but his body burned, cock stirring. Drake chuckled. “I don’t force. You’ll come to me when you’re ready.” He waved Jack off, but the encounter lingered, a seed in Jack’s fracturing mind.Days passed, and Jack’s desperation grew. Before Blackthorn, drugs and sex had been his life—cocaine to sharpen the edges, women to sate his hunger. Now, his body screamed for release. Andrew’s boxers weren’t enough; the ritual left him hollow. One night, emboldened, he turned to Andrew, sprawled on his bunk, musk filling the cell. “Where can I score some blow?” Jack whispered, voice trembling. Andrew’s eyes snapped open, furious. In a flash, he was up, his hand cracking across Jack’s face. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled, turning over, dismissing Jack like a child. The sting fueled Jack’s need. The next day, he sought Drake, who controlled the contraband—drugs, smokes, favors. In the yard, Drake leaned against a wall, Jane hovering like a shadow. “Lookin’ for somethin’?” Drake held up a baggie of cocaine. Jack’s mouth watered, body aching. “I need it,” he said, desperate. Drake’s eyes gleamed. “Nothin’s free, rich boy.” Before Jack could respond, Andrew’s grip yanked him back. “Don’t,” he warned, voice a growl. But Jack was too far gone.That night, Drake summoned Jack to an empty cell, the air thick with anticipation. Andrew’s warning echoed, but Jack ignored it, driven by need. Drake’s crew cleared out, leaving Drake, Jane, and Jack. Drake’s eyes roamed Jack’s body, a predator sizing prey. “Get him ready,” he ordered Jane. Jane’s hands were deft, stripping Jack, cleaning his body with a damp cloth, the touch sending shivers through his skin. He shaved Jack’s chest, legs, groin, the razor’s glide intimate, exposing every inch. A cold, tight cage locked around Jack’s cock, the constraint a humiliating thrill. Jane dressed him in red lingerie—lace panties hugging his ass, a bra framing his pecs. Jack’s reflection in a cracked mirror was alien: vulnerable, sensual, broken. Drake returned, eyes widening. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with lust. He dismissed Jane, leaving them alone. The cell was a furnace, air charged. Drake grabbed Jack, hands rough, pushing him to his knees. Jack’s heart raced, but his body was alight, craving surrender. He tugged Drake’s pants down, and that monster cock sprang free, slapping his cheek. The scent—manly, musky, overpowering—drove Jack wild. He licked the tip, slow, savoring the salt of precum. Drake groaned, hand tangling in Jack’s hair. “Better than Jane,” he muttered.Jack’s lips parted, taking Drake deeper, tongue swirling, the weight filling his mouth. Drake’s hips bucked, fucking Jack’s throat raw, the rhythm brutal, perfect. Jack gagged, tears streaming, but he loved it—the degradation, the power, the heat. The cell echoed with Drake’s grunts, Jack’s muffled moans, the wet slap of flesh. Word spread—Blackthorn’s new bitch was born. After twenty minutes, Drake thrust deep, cumming with a roar, seed flooding Jack’s throat. Jack swallowed every drop, trembling with twisted pride. Drake pulled out, still hard, and laid cocaine along his cock, a white line of temptation. “Take your hit,” he said. Jack snorted it, the rush exploding, mind soaring to his old life. High and reckless, he leaned to kiss Drake, craving more. Drake’s hand cracked across his face. “Know your place,” he snarled, then shoved his cock back in, fucking Jack’s throat again until he came a second time. Spent, Drake left, tossing Jack a glance. Jane returned, eyes soft, handing Jack water, helping him sit. Jack’s throat burned, body ached, the red lingerie a brand. He was a whore now, broken for a man, for cock, for coke. Tears spilled as he stumbled to his cell, shame and ecstasy warring.In the cell, Andrew was awake, sprawled on his bunk, hand on his cock, stroking slowly. The sight punched Jack’s gut—Andrew, sweating, grunting, his eight-inch cock glistening. Jack, still in the red lingerie, climbed onto his bunk, trembling. He curled up, tears soaking his pillow, the weight of his transformation crushing him. Andrew’s grunts filled the cell, and Jack knew he’d heard—knew what Jack had become. The air was thick with unspoken tension, Andrew’s silence a challenge, a promise.
What Happens Next?Jack’s fall is complete—he’s no longer the alpha but a man enslaved by desire, marked by Drake’s dominance and his own hunger. The prison knows, his role as Drake’s new “bitch” drawing eyes and threats. Andrew, the silent giant, is the wildcard. Jack’s transformation—his scent of submission, the red lingerie, his tear-streaked vulnerability—has cracked Andrew’s stoic facade. His masturbation, now brazen in Jack’s presence, is a signal: he sees Jack, wants him, will claim him.
