Paul first saw him in the prison library. His name was Dexter, and Paul helped him find a book. An adventure book with words that weren't too difficult to comprehend. Paul felt a chill go up his spine when their hands brushed against each other - and he knew.

Dexter was an indescribable mix of races that pretty much resolved itself into 'mean.' Skin that came across as deeply tanned without having taken the effort to go outside, a montage of tattoos that screamed brutality, and a physique that revealed he'd been penned up for years with little better to do than work out and work at working off angry aggression.

Paul couldn't believe - couldn't hope - that Dexter would ever be in a position to leave the penitentiary, but after months of exchanging pen pal letters, it looked like that might be the case.

While he waited, Paul, who worked a couple of volunteer hours a week in the prison library, dutifully went to his accountant's job in a medium-sized cubicle in an unending bank of cubicles on the third floor of a mammoth insurance agency and quietly and innocuously put in his time. After working into the early evening hours, he'd stop at a modest grocery store on his way home and pick up his canned or quick-frozen supper. And then he'd enter his sixth-floor, one-bedroom apartment without a view in a medium-rise, thirty-year-old apartment block and sit and eat his meal with a television show going in the background that he never watched or listened to.

While Paul ate, he'd concentrate on dredging up and continually replaying the last short, seemingly innocuous conversation he had with Dexter in the prison library. When he was finished eating his meal, he'd wash his dishes and stack them back in the cupboard. Then he'd walk over and turn off the television, take a shower, and then, naked, lie on his bed and masturbate to the rereading of the letters from Dexter and the imaginings of being fucked by Dexter, being Dexter's cellmate and being taken by Dexter without his consent. Then spent and satisfied, Paul would turn off his night light and sleep until it was time to start the cycle all over again.

When he learned that Dexter was being paroled, Paul broke out into a sweat and his hands trembled so badly that he could neither finish his evening meal nor his nightly masturbation. It was only then that he realized that perhaps the reason he had focused on Dexter was that he seemingly was unattainable. Safe. Probably never going to see the outside of the prison.

But Dexter was paroled. And on the day Dexter walked out of the prison, Paul was standing on the pavement outside the gates, as he had agreed he would be, waiting for Dexter.

'You got a room?' was the first thing a miraculously free Dexter said at the prison gate.

'Yes,' Paul said meekly. And, indeed, he did. It wasn't his apartment, of course. It was a room at a good motel. And he'd prepaid for a week. He'd promised Dexter the room would be clean and his - for a week.

'Clothes first. I gotta get out of these shitty rags. And money. You said you'd give me a thou.'

'Yes, here's the money,' Paul murmured. He couldn't look at Dexter. He was all atremble. Scared and aroused at the same time. Being alone in his apartment with the letters and Dexter behind bars was one thing. Dexter here in the flesh out on the street and the content of those letters zinging through Paul's brain were something else altogether. 'My car's over here. I'll take you to a good clothes store.'

'Think they'll have something to go over these pecs and biceps,' Dexter asked with pride in his voice. He flexed and made the tattoos running down his arm jiggle.

'Yes, sure, we'll find something,' Paul responded. A whole other world, he was thinking. There was absolutely nothing that Dexter's world had in common with Paul's. But then Paul's life wasn't all that hot, he thought. This gave Paul a little thrill, and he felt himself going hard. Maybe this would be OK.

'A bar. After the clothes, then a bar. Then that room.' Dexter gave Paul a look - that look - and he smacked his lips and sucked his teeth in.

Paul looked down and blushed.

'Hey, you really want this?' Dexter asked. 'You know the money, clothes, and room will do me if you don't. I can find someone else to screw. That ain't no problem.'

'No . . . no. The clothes, a bar, and then . . . the room. It's what I want.'

Later, in the motel room, blinds drawn, and a underamped light bulb in a bedside lamp sending shadows into the corners of the room.

'What you said in the letters . . . what you described . . . did you really . . . ?' Paul couldn't complete the sentence. He was hunched down in the chair, Dexter towering over him, naked and aglow from a shower now except for his newly purchased briefs, having wanted to wash every hint of prison from his body the first thing after they'd entered the room.

'Yeah, it's true. It's what I do. It's rough in there. And when you don't got no power in one way, it sorta shows in other ways. You either do or you get done. And if you do, you make sure everyone knows you can do.'

Paul trembling a bit now. And aroused. On the edge. Those letters . . . they were quite graphic. And, as the correspondence had progressed, they had increasingly become focused on Paul. Paul knew it probably was only because of what he promised to do for Dexter - the transition from prison. But . . .

Paul looked up at Dexter, at the rippling muscles of his chest, the constantly rippling tattoo display, the barrel chest tapering down to the thin waist. The broken nose, the mean, screaming gash across his cheek. The ropy muscles with the veins popping out, the rock-solid meat inside giving them no place else to go.

The thought of what was there under the prison uniform, plus what was in those letters, had sustained Paul for months of solitary masturbation. Now, in the flesh. . . . Paul felt himself turning to jelly. He suddenly longed for this to be fantasy. It had all been a fantasy. Hadn't it? He attempted to transport himself back to his cubicle, among all of those other cubicles, soft, nondescript music in the background, crunching numbers as he listened to two guys down the corridor discuss the previous night's basketball game.

But there was no transporting himself to the 'other side' - to safety.

'Did you mean what you put in the letters?' Dexter asked gruffly. 'Do you want this?'

He dropped his briefs. He was ready. Long and thick and throbbing and ready.

'Yes,' Paul murmured quietly. He hadn't meant to say that. But someone in the room other than Dexter had said it, so Paul guessed it had been him. Paul didn't want to look at Dexter's mammoth cock. But he couldn't look anywhere else.

'And you want it prison style, like you said in your letters?'

'Yes.' Whispered. Surely by someone else. Paul wouldn't have said that.

'Like a virgin? First night in my cell? Guards pissy at the new pretty boy in my cell, needing to be taken down a notch. Everyone lookin' the other way?'


'Are you that, Paul? Are you a virgin?'

'That way. That way, yes,'

Dexter was smiling. He also was stroking his cock - which was growing in size, although Paul hadn't thought that was possible.

'You bring rubbers?'

'Yes. There. There, in my briefcase.'



'Tonight. Tonight, you understand. Then that's it. I get the money and the clothes and this room for a week. And you get lost. And no calling the cops, no matter what, Right?'

'Right. Yes, it's what we agreed.'

'Cause if you call in the cops, I got friends that'll do you good and forever, understand?'


'After it starts, no stoppin' it, you understand? Otherwise it ain't real. Not like in my prison cell. Not like fresh meat thrown into my cell.'

'Yes.' Close to tears now. The last yes whimpered. Hanging out over the edge. He wasn't safely tucked away in his cubicle now.

Paul's head snapped to the side in pain and shock as Dexter took two strides toward him and backhanded him across the cheek. An evil grin on his face. Wanting and intending to take. Brutally.

This pushed all of the air out Paul's lungs, and he was given scant chance of replacing that. Dexter grabbed Paul's head between his hands and had the head of his cock forcing its way between Paul's lips.

'Treat it right, Baby, or you'll regret it.'

Paul, trapped in the chair by Dexter's hulking body hunched over his, gagged and fought for breath as Dexter filled him to the back of his throat and, grabbing Paul's hair in his hands, began moving Paul's head back and forth, back and forth on his rod.

This was only the beginning. And Dexter saved himself, wanting the virginal ass - and sooner rather than later. When he released Paul from the face fuck and turned to fish condoms out of the brief case, Paul made a struggling lurch out of the chair and for the door. This definitely wasn't fantasy. This was overload.

But Dexter turned and tackled Paul down to the floor. He held Paul down with one strong hand holding the accountant's arm twisted, painfully behind his back, Paul's face buried in the carpet, while the erstwhile inmate jerked off Paul's pants and briefs. Then, crowned, but without lubricant or any other preparation, Dexter pulled Paul up to his hands and knees, hunched over his pelvis, and brutally thrust his dick at Paul's hole again and again and again, until he was in, past the sphincter, into the tight, previously unused channel.

Paul was gasping and crying out to the ceiling and writhing. Dexter was laughing and pounding away. Having a good old time. When Paul's knees gave way, Dexter just rode him down to the carpet, and kept thrusting away.

Later, Paul laying on his back on the bed, exhausted and brutalized. Dexter, sitting, still naked, in the chair facing the foot of the bed. Swigging one of the beers they had brought back to the room.

'Stroke it,' Dexter said in a guttural voice. 'Stroke yourself.'

'What? Why?' Paul said, his voice spent and trembling.

'Just do it. I want to see how big it gets.'

After a bit.

'Ah. Good. Nice size. Keep it up. I want to see the cream. Think of the letters. You said you did it to the letters.'

Heavy breathing, from both bed and chair. At last an 'Ahhh,' and Paul let his head drop back, spent, dribbles of cum on his flat belly.

'Spread 'em.'

'N-o-o,' wheedling, weakly voiced. 'Please, no.'

'I said spread 'em for me. I'm in a fuckin' mood again. Your jackoff put me in a fuckin' mood.'

Dexter was already at the end of the bed, pulling Paul down to the edge with a fist wrapped around his ankle.

'Nooo,' Paul whimpered, trying to come up in a sitting position. He started to say something else, but this was cut off by a backhand across his face that sent his head reeling back onto the bedspread.

'Here, hold this,' Dexter said as he thrust his half-empty beer bottle into Paul's hand. 'Don't lose none.'

As Paul meekly took hold of the beer bottle, fighting to keep it upright, Dexter fisted Paul's calves and pulled them wide apart. Then he grabbed one of the bed pillows and stuffed that under Paul's hips, raising his pelvis. Dexter took the beer bottle back in one hand and pinned Paul's sternum to the bed surface with the other. Paul didn't have a chance. Dexter was twice as big and three times bulkier than Paul.

Paul cried out in surprise and pain as he felt the cold glass of the beer bottle neck being pushed into his ass. He started to struggle, but Dexter lifted his hand long enough to backhand Paul's cheek again and then returned it to his sternum.

'The more you struggle, the worse it will feel,' Dexter said, giving his prey a cruel grin. 'Thought we'd do it this time with some lube.'

The cold beer felt strangely soothing as it spread and sloshed around inside Paul's stretched and shredded channel, and Paul just laid back and took it. Again.

Soon the thrusting bottle was replaced with a hard, thrusting, insistent cock.

Dexter was in high heat. Who knows how long it had been since he'd gotten his rocks off - years at least since he had been able to enjoy it without keeping one eye and ear cocked to the cell door in case a guard was passing by - assuming that it would be one of the few guards who cared what he was doing with and to his cellmate.

While he fucked, Dexter lowered took Paul's cock in one hand and treated it like it was the stick shift in a drag race. He grunted and lowered his lips and teeth to Paul's nipples and neck and licked and kissed and bit and chewed, while Paul panted and moaned and groaned and moved in waves of his own new-found passion and lust under the attentions of a man who fucked brutally and roughly - and completely.

Hours later a bruised and whimpering Paul was dumped unceremoniously outside the motel door, on the balcony overlooking the parking lot and a Pizza Hut, and the door to what was now wholly Dexter's room was shut firmly and locked. It was several more minutes before Paul was able to rise and drag himself down to his car . . .

. . . and back to his life.

Paul saw him for the first time three weeks later, in the prison library. His name was Digger, or at least that was the name he went by in prison, and Paul helped him find a book. An adventure book with words that weren't too difficult to comprehend. Paul felt a chill go up his spine when their hands brushed against each other - and he knew.



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