For the first time in the seven months Joe had been in prison he felt totally at ease. With the warmth of the pavement to his back, he folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the dazzling heavenly show.

Euphoric in his newfound freedom Joe closed his eyes and quickly drifted into a deep sleep; he dreamt of his grandfather, Red Fox, the only parent Joe had ever known, and his mother, Ruby, she had abandoned him soon after birth. Joe's father was likewise a mystery; Joe hadn't even seen a photo of the man, or for that matter, ever heard his grandfather say his name. Such was the complete contempt his grandfather held for the young man, dismissed as the worthless piece of trash that took his beautiful young daughter off the reservation to live in the white man's world. After six years of silence from Ruby, his grandfather held a traditional Apache funeral for his daughter, mourned her loss as if she had died and never again spoke her name.

Joe bolted up shocked scentless by the blast of air horns. He was face to face with the massive chrome grill of an eighteen-wheeler, the idling engine rumbled and coughed out billowing hot clouds of foul smelling diesel.

The adrenaline surge raced through Joe's body; his heart pumped so fast he felt it would explode. Yet his body was almost catatonic, frozen in motion, poised as if it still deciding on a flight or-fight stance. The headlights of a huge Peterbuilt truck back lighted the men and Joe stared at the silhouettes of the broad-shoulder truckers.

'Hey good-looking!' The big trucker bellowed out. 'What in hell's name are you doing sleeping on the highway at night? If Travis here hadn't yelled out 'Something down on the road ahead!' I'd for damn sure have road-kill on my hands!'

Joe stuttered and stammered. 'I'was, trying to catch a ride. Been walking a long time so I stretched out on the warm pavement to rest up a bit and I just fell asleep. Hitchhiking on this stretch of road is slow going'haven't seen any traffic tonight.'

Tom, the hulking trucker, grinned and looked at his partner, Travis. 'Well buddy, we just got lucky! Got us a genuine Jailbird, and from the looks of it he ain't even fully feathered.'

The younger trucker, Travis, stepped behind Joe; the truck headlights spotlighted his lean body. He took off his cowboy hat and gave Joe a big smile of gleaming white teeth that seemed to reflect the light. He had the bluest eyes Joe had ever seen; his hair was honey colored streaked blonde from the sun. With his tight jeans, western shirt and cowboy boots he looked like a rodeo-rider poster boy.

Travis reached down and pulled Joe up. 'So Injin-boy you got a name?' He spun Joe around and checked out the logo on the jumpsuit. 'First thing we gonna do is get you out of these clothes'Smoky take one look and he'd haul your young ass back to prison!

Now boy, don't ya give me that look'we cool with your situation.' Travis laughed. 'Hell, we're both Angola State Prison alumni!'

Everything was happening so fast that Joe felt lightheaded. He unzipped the oversize jumpsuit, it fell to the pavement, he was clad only in his prison issue flip-flops and boxer shorts, stamped across the ass in big bold type: PRISONER. Joe looked sheepishly at the two men. Tom was a big man, at lease six foot five; Travis was shorter, around the same height as Joe; five, seven or eight without his boots.

Tom looked admiringly at his new discovery; Joe's body was a real eye-opener, the red-buff colored skin rippled with muscles reminding Tom of his beloved pit bull, Blood.

'Boy, might as well pitch them prison issue drawers, never can tell who's gonna be snooping and checking ya out.' He chuckled and looked over at Travis.

Joe's crimson blush amused the truckers; they sniggered and nudged one another. As the boxers fell around his feet, he heard a gasp from Travis.

'Dam boy! You're packing some heavy-duty meat! Say Tom looks like you've got a serious contender for the Dick-of-death title. What's that bad-boy like angry? Ten inches, maybe more?'

The heat radiated from Joe's face as he felt his cock come to life. All his life he had endured the humiliating condition of an over active dick, all it took to set things in motion was for someone to stare or comment. It was as if they were talking directly to his tool and the damn thing would just get stupid, swelling up, drooling pre-cum, begging for more attention. He tried to cover himself with both hands, but it only heightened attention to his super-sized cock.

Travis made Coyote calls and started pretending to be jacking off a massive meat tube. 'Tom, I just thought of a nickname for our Ingin-boy: Mini-Me! Don't he remind you of a young Tom, say fifteen years back when we were in the slammer? Look at the size and shape of that beautiful cock''

Tom really had thought of the comparison but chose not to comment about it. 'Travis, I been telling ya for years, all Native American men have things in common: a bony ridge above thick black eyebrows, dark inset eyes, reddish-brown skin and big-round dicks; and if the booze hasn't gotten to them, they'd probably have a rock-hard body.' Tom put his big arm around Travis, pulled him to his lips and whispered. 'I'm still ya number-one stud, right?'

Travis mellowed in Tom's embrace. 'Big guy, you'll always be number-one, but I get to play around occasionally don't I?' He reached down and copped a quick feel of Tom's impressive bulge.

'Time to get this show on the road guys'' Tom reached down and scooped up Joe's prison duds. 'The state troopers love to check out this stretch of road in hopes of catching them an escaped convict. I hear they really work them over before hauling them back to Four Corners for the CO's to finish up.' He saw a look of disbelief on Joe's face. 'They really take an escape personal and like to make an example of them to deter other escape attempts.'

Joe felt both relief and misgiving as he climbed naked into the sleeping compartment behind the seat. He stretched out and looked through the curtain opening. Tom was gearing the truck up to cruising speed while Travis searched around in a small ice chest finally bringing up two amber colored bottles and popped the tops.

'Abita Beer! Best damn brew in the country. Tom I know you don't want a beer, can I get you a coke or something?' Travis said.

Tom just smiled and said he was fine. His problem with drinking alcohol beverages was that he couldn't settle for just one and always got shit-faced, sometimes downright ornery. These days he only got wasted when he was home in Golden Meadows, Louisiana, sitting on his pier with Becky, his sweet wife, and the mother of his five beautiful children. They'd watch the sunset dancing on the dark waters of Bayou Lafourche as it slowly flowed to the Gulf.

Joe took the beer that Travis presented and thanked him; he took a sip and nodded his approval. It was only his second taste of beer; his first was a sip from his grandfather's bottle when he was twelve years old. He could still remember the god-offal taste and hear his grandfather laugh. Joe took another sip; it was cold and really quenched his thirst.

Travis turned sideways so he was facing Joe. 'This beer is brewed in my old home town, Abita Springs, Louisiana and I stock up on it when we have a long haul. Say, you haven't told us your name'and while you're at it might as well tell us your story. That bandage on your neck and those bruise remind me of my good old days in the pen.'

Joe was polishing off his beer when Travis handed him another. 'Thanks Travis, you know this is really good stuff but I seem to be getting lightheaded. Probably because I didn't eat anything yesterday, guess I was nervous about my busting out.' Joe took another big swig of beer and said. 'Name's Joe Allred and I've lived all my life on the reservation, a few months ago I turned eighteen and took a hotel job in Santa Fe, that's when all my problems began.' He finished the beer and handed the bottle to Travis, his head was spinning so that he had to lay back. 'Man I'm dizzy as hell! Think I better rest a little while'if that's all right with you guys.'

Travis shook Joe. 'Hey buddy, everything alright?' He was out cold; Travis closed the curtain and looked over at Tom. 'What? So I gave him a little something in the last beer! It's not like I'm gonna rape him or anything!' Travis grinned. 'Although I wouldn't mind checking out that big summer sausage between his legs.'

Tom reached over, grabbed the back of Travis's neck, and pulled him down to his crotch. 'I got just what ya need baby'let ya do me twice tonight seeing how our young Indian brave got ya all frisky.'

Travis moaned as he fished Tom's massive cock out of hiding. It started boning out and towered up to the steering wheel. 'Stud, you smell so good and the skin around your cock is like velvet, I can never get enough of this big baby maker!' Travis relaxed his throat and slowly swallowed the entire shaft.

Tom's body trembled and he moaned from pleasure as Travis worked feverishly to bring him to his first climax. 'Oh yeah, do it to me baby!' Suddenly his heavy balls constricted and hot cum shot out like a geyser flooding Travis's mouth forcing him to swallow as fast as could. The pleasure sensation Tom was experiencing from the intense sucking had now turned into a sadomasochistic pain as Travis literally sucked the sperm from Tom's throbbing nuts until he was dry. The pain/pleasure continued as Travis mercilessly toyed with the big glans penis, forcing his tongue-stud into the slit and moving it around. Finally the pain subsided and Tom began to feel a return of virility, the pleasure sensation was building up in his throbbing testicles. He grabbed Travis's head and raptly fucked his abused mouth. Tom yelled as he shot another load of hot spunk deep into Travis' throat.

Travis made a dive for the ice chest, grabbed a brew and popped the top, he chugalugged half a bottle before he stopped and massaged his throat. 'Man, it hurts so good!'

Tom understood, he had had a front row seat for the total destruction of 'Hop & Chop,' the kung-fu kickboxing pretty-boy jock who had entertained the prison for weeks; and Travis' transformation into 'Hoover-Boy,' the undisputed champion cock sucking cum-dump

He remembered the excitement of Travis' first day on the cellblock, old cons, jokers, and gangbangers alike walking around all boned up. The boy was a masterpiece, perfection oozing from every pour. It was like sweep-week on television; the cons never look or acted so well, everybody was hitting on Travis offering him cigarettes, candy bars, some of the big timers brought out weed and the all-time favorite teen party-drug, Ecstasy.

Travis watching was the thing to do. Groups of old-timers, punks and prison guards huddled in the background whispering and making bets as to who would walk away with the prize, the best punk-to-be ever to walk in the joint.

The fact that Travis was straight and a typical homophobic country jock was just icing on the cake. Running foremost in the minds of predators in prison these days is the STD factor, and what safer punk candidate than a young rural boy.

Those first few days of wooing must have been great for Travis; everyone wanted to be his friend. The socially minded older inmates knew better than to burst the euphoric bubble and 'lace-him-up' as to what was going down, fear of gang reprisal was a daily factor in their lives.

Everyone was waiting for the day when the gloves would come off and Travis would have to make a decision. The choices were all bad: 'hoe-check' would be a last resort if the gang leaders couldn't persuade Travis to voluntarily submit to a life of punkdom in exchange for protection. Hoe-check would of necessity mess the boy up, they would have to beat him down, shatter his self-confidence. The degree of degeneration depended on which gang had final ownership.

Newboots would normally have a couple of other choices: they could 'Catch a Ride,' meaning they're cowards or can't fight. So they become a hoe and pay for protection in one form or another, commissary goods or be somebody's punk, doing laundry, maybe wind up doing the gang along with the cleaning.

The last straw is a 'Catch-Out,' they can't or won't fight and can't pay, so they go to the boss-man, a correctional officer and asked for protective custody, if he says no the inmate sends a letter home describing his circumstance. They write the warden who will acquiesce and orders the change in housing to forgo any negative publicity.

Travis would not have the luxury of choosing one of the latter choices; he fell into the rare prison category of 'in-demand.' He literally had the bulls lined up waiting and hoping for a piece of him.

As for family, Travis was more-or-less on his own. During his watercraft homicide trial his family even testified for the prosecuting attorney. Travis' young pro bono lawyer was way out of his league; the judge and prosecution were so embarrassed by his ineptness on trial procedures that they practically made his case for him.

In the end it came down to who the jury believed, a poor trailer trash boy or the well to do family of his buddy that was killed in the boating accident. No one would believe that Billy was driving the boat because earlier that afternoon people testified they had seen Travis at the wheel. Or for that matter, believe that the stepson of the District Attorney would be so reckless as to drive while intoxicated. The DA had recused himself and let his assistant try the case, which seemed to satisfy the court. The old judge was very familiar with the Fitzgerald clan, quite a few of Travis' relatives had come before his bench and he had nothing but contempt for them. Still, everyone was surprised that Travis received the harshest sentence available, fifteen years at Angola Prison.

Aryan gangs would make every effort to keep a blonde hair, blue eyed WASP out of the 'Mud-People's' hands; a derogatory term loosely attributed to any non-Caucasian. Most of their turned-out punks ended up looking like skinheads, heavily tattooed with racial symbols parading around like walking billboards for white supremacy. Oral sex is favored, although anal sex occasionally happens, although it's widely thought among the Nazi-loving gangs, as a Mud-People thing.

Some of the Black and Hispanic gangs would try to turn the boy into a bitch, go the whole nine yards with lipstick and girly panties. They like their punks' effeminate and would beat out every shred of manly traits; anal sex is the mainstay, although oral sex run a close second, particularly if the punk in training gave them trouble.

Travis went wild and his redneck roots kicked in during his hoe-check. He looked like a Tasmanian Devil cartoon, his martial arts skills became painfully obvious to his would be gangbangers as he downed several who tried to 'backdoor' him, fighting one after another. Finally when the bloody floor count hit seven they started the 'click-action,' all at once four big guy's jumper Travis.

Jumping into the melee, the Peckerwoods, white inmates without any gang affiliation simply because he had shown 'heart' proving that he could fight and wasn't a coward.

All hell broke loose when the Peckerwoods joined in, suddenly all the various gangs jumped up to takeout the nonaffiliated white boys. When it became obvious they couldn't defend Travis they stepped out of fighting and waited in the sidelines with heads hung low.

Travis was pounded to a pulp, with both eyes swollen shut they dragged him into an empty cell, forced him to his knees, and twisted his arms behind his back. A huge black inmate grabbed a fist full of hair, he turned Travis' face up to the light and bitch slapped him, all the time yelling that he was now his punk. Just as Travis started to yell back at the big man a huge cock was shoved in his mouth. He gagged and choked, when he realized what was happening he bit down on the cock as hard as he could. The big man screamed and cried as he raced around the cell with his fist tightly wrapped around his cock to stop the bleeding, the blood continued to gush out from between his fingers

The gangbangers were incensed; they grabbed his arms and dragged Travis to their lair at the opposite end of the long tier, there they would deal with him without the entire prison watching.

The young man that had defended himself against incredible odds with skill and heart; was now being dragged away by the bootie-bandits to an isolated location where even more horrendous torture awaited him. Just moments earlier the inmates of general population had been cheering on their underdog favorite, now they hung their heads in shame, heartbroken they could do nothing for the courageous boy.

A week after the turning out party word filtered down that Travis had been savagely gang raped and was taken to the infirmary where the doctor had to use forty-eight sutures to repair his rectum.

The report also said that Travis fought like a badger to the very end, even as he was being viciously torn apart by the rapist he refused to suck a cock, treating to bit it off if they tried.

Mercifully he passed out during the rapes. The bootie-bandits took a lead pipe, smashed out his front teeth, leaving just the upper and lower back teeth, thus creating the ultimate face-fuck. A punk who could accommodate even the largest cocks with the added assurance that he would never bit another cock.

To be continued.



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