THE PRISONER
 

A tale of brutality and beauty

Of Love and Lust

Of Sex and Sensitivity

by: Will B.
© 2008 by the Author
Encouraged by E Walk

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

In the fall of 2008 a young man, supposedly from a decent family in the Baltimore area, murdered four members of his family. He pleaded guilty. He was sentenced to two life terms in prison that were to be served consecutively. He would not be eligible for parole for many years, and not then, unless the Governor approved it. It was not clear why he did what he did, and no one knew what would happen to him in prison. 

This story deals with another man who was sentenced to a long term in prison and how he would meet the newest arrival at the prison.  Bart Jacobs was 32 in the autumn of 2008. He had been in prison for twelve years. He still had many years to serve.

Bart had been born in 1976 in Baltimore. His parents were ‘middle class’ economically, but they lived frugally and had a row house in a pleasant suburb of the city. Bart’s father was a manager of a store in town. As Bart grew older, his mom took a part-time job, but she was always there to fix dinner.

Bart was doing well in school, and at sixteen, he was as tall as his dad (five-foot-eleven), with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He did a lot of swimming, and his body showed good muscular definition. Bart was definitely maturing. He shaved four times a week.  Bart’s dad would tease him by telling him that when it had to be seven days a week, he would realize what a chore it was.

Bart had curly brown hair, blue eyes, and a killer smile. Behind his back, and sometimes to his face, the girls would glance at him appraisingly.  On the other hand, Bart would sometime glance in the same way at some of the boys in his class.

Yes, he was gay, but in 1992, a guy who was ‘that way inclined,’ knew he had better be mighty careful.
 

On his sixteenth birthday, his dad took him to get his driver’s license, and Bart felt like he was on top of the world.

And then, when he was seventeen, his world fell apart; his dad died suddenly. Bart was devastated. His mother was so knocked off her feet that she began to ‘take a little nip,’ that became ‘oh, just a small one,’ and then, she just had to have her bottle all the time. She lost her job, and then stopped taking care of herself, of the house, and of Bart.

Bart was lonely and discouraged. He had one friend he could talk to—Jay Taylor was the same age as Bart.  Jay had dark hair and a nicely built body. Jay’s parents were almost never home, so Bart often went over there to hang out with his buddy.

One day while Bart and Jay were talking about something, Bart was suddenly so overcome with grief about his father that he began to sob. Without thinking, Jay took Bart in his arms to comfort him. He rubbed Bart’s back and tried  to soothe him. While they were in the close embrace, they both felt their bodies responding to the feelings of love and desire they were feeling for each other.

They pulled apart and looked at each other … and then they kissed! That kiss released all kinds of warm feelings, warmer feelings, and then the white-hot feelings of teenage lust and love.

Jay said, “Bart, I want you. I want to make love to you, and I want to take your magnificent cock in my mouth, and I want to savor the sweet nectar of your man-milk.”

Bart kicked off his shoes, dropped his trousers, and stepped out of them. Jay knelt down, and began the sensuous tonguing and kissing and then sucking that soon brought Bart to the edge. His explosion of cum covered Jay’s face, neck, and upper body.

At first, breathless with the emotion of ejaculation, Bart was finally able to say, “My turn now!”  Positions were reversed, Jay lay on the floor, and Bart knelt over him, administering to him the same sensuous treatment. Bart’s ejaculation was no less wonderful than Bart’s had been. They lay in each other’s arms for a while before they got up to go in the bathroom and clean themselves off and get dressed. As Bart was at the door, he turned to Jay, and kissed him one more time—not passionately, but gently, lovingly.

From that time on, Bart and Jay were lovers, partners, and inseparable companions.

There was money coming in from Bart’s father’s insurance policy, but there was no one to guide and support Bart. He began cutting school more and more frequently, and he and Jay fell in with the wrong crowd.

One day, Jay asked Bart if he would like to make a little 'bread'. All Bart would have to do would be sit in a car and wait while Jay and two others ‘took care of some business’ in a nearby store.

Bart either didn’t know or didn’t care what ‘the business’ was, but when Jay and his friends came out and jumped in the car and told him to ‘step on it’,  he began to realize that something was wrong. However, when they got to their destination, Jay handed him a hundred-dollar bill, and all Bart could think of was: MONEY! Now he could buy some food for himself and his mother.

Time and again Bart was the lookout and the driver, and time and again Jay would hand him a hundred dollar bill.

Bart and Jay went on jobs together, and after the job was over, they did jobs on each other!

In 1996 they were on a job—they were going to rob a bank. They had planned carefully, but something went wrong—dreadfully wrong! The police showed up, and Jay was shot dead. Bart grabbed Jay’s gun and shot at a policeman. He didn’t kill him, but he wounded him very seriously.

Bart was arrested, tried, and found guilty. There was no doubt about it, and Bart didn’t even try to defend himself. He was grief-stricken over Jay’s death; he was guilt-ridden about having shot a policeman, and he could not bear to face his mother, who had been shocked into sobriety by her son’s crime.

The jury did not take long to find him guilty, and he was sentenced to forty years in prison. He was just nineteen!

When Bart arrived at the prison, he met with the warden. Warden Simmons was a tall man, used to the habit of command, and all too used to dealing with punks who came into the prison thinking they had been unfairly treated, and ready to take their anger out on everyone—the warden, the guards, the other inmates.

Warden Simmons was surprised to see Bart Jacobs a tall good-looking young man who spoke politely, and addressed him as ‘Sir.’

“Jacobs, you’re going to be here for a long time. I hope you will not make any trouble for us … or for anybody.”

“No, Sir. I am guilty as charged and I deserve this sentence. I don’t plan to be any trouble. I just want to take my punishment like a man.”

The Warden was surprised, almost shocked, to hear this young man talk so humbly and politely. He was used to prisoners who shouted and cursed, and who insisted that they were innocent, and that they hadn’t gotten a fair trial.

“Jacobs, while I feel that you did a terrible thing, I have to respect your honesty and your willingness to try to do the right thing. I wish more of the other prisoners had your attitude. There is one thing I should caution you about.”

“Sir?”

“Jacobs, you are young and good-looking. Some of the other prisoners may try to . . .”

“Yes, Sir, I know.”

“If you feel you are endangered, let me know, we can give you special protection, but that may mean you would have to stay in your cell twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, but we will try to protect you.”

“Sir, thank you, but I think I can take care of myself. I hope I can.”

“I hope so, too. Now, although I never thought I’d be saying this to one of the inmates, and someone who shot a cop, at that, good luck to you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Bart was to undergo his first ordeal that night in the showers. As he walked in, carrying his towel, and a small piece of soap, he could sense that all the other prisoners were looking at him. As he moved into the shower area, he heard comments like, “Well, look at the pretty boy.” “I’d like to show him a thing or two.” And “Hey kid, you want to taste a real man’s cock?”

A couple of the inmates started to move towards him, and Bart just stared at them, not saying anything, but not showing any fear either. ‘Oh, God,’ he silently prayed, ‘if this is to be part of my punishment, let me take it like a man.’

Suddenly, a voice spoke from the side of the shower room. “Let him be, he’s mine!” The would-be attackers moved away from Bart. The shower area had a stone bench running along two sides of the room. Bart looked to see who had spoken. He saw a tall six-foot-six giant of a man, with reddish hair, a beard and moustache. His muscular arms ad legs were covered with fine ruddy-gold hair, and his chest was broad. As the man sat there, a towel was draped over one leg, partially but not completely covering a dark red pubic bush; Bart noticed that the man had something else covered by the towel that could only be a massive cock that, even flaccid, must have been thick and long.

The stranger had a sardonic look on his face, but there was something in his expression, in his eyes, or maybe the laugh lines around that wide oh-so-kissable mouth, that made Bart feel there was no need to be afraid of this incredible hunk.

The man stood, his towel dropping to the floor, revealing his entire body. He walked over to Bart, held out his hand, and said, “I’m Bill Johnson, but they call me ‘Hoss.’ You can call me ‘Hoss’.”

Bart took the hand and shook it and said, “I’m Bart, Bart Jacobs.”

“Take your shower, Bart, and I’ll see you to your cell. Go on, nobody will bother you now.”

Bart took a quick shower, and walked out of the common room. None of the other prisoners said a word. If Bart had looked back, he might have seen some of the prisoners jerking each other off and two couples engaged in sixty-nines, right on the floor in the shower, while others stood around and watched.

On their way to the cells, Bart said, “Thanks, Hoss.”

“S’all right, kid. You didn’t show fear, and that’s a good thing. I’ve marked you as mine, and I don’t think anybody’ll bother you now.”

‘What does he mean, I’m his,’ Bart thought to himself. ‘I hope he doesn’t … or do I mean I hope he does …?’

On the way back to the cells, Hoss stopped to speak to one of the guards. Bart couldn’t hear what was being said, but he saw the guard nod and heard him say, “Well, OK.”

They reached the cell that Bart thought would be his home for the next several dozen years. It was small, not much bigger than ten or twelve feet square. On one side of the cell there was a stone platform that had a mattress and a rough woolen blanket and over that, another platform bed with a mattress and blanket. On the other side of the cell there was a narrower platform that could serve as a chair. Between the end of that platform and the back wall there was a toilet. The toilet had no lid or seat; it was just a bare stainless steel stool. If Bart wanted to do any writing he would have to hold his pencil and paper in his bare hands while he sat on the narrow seat. Light was provided by a single light bulb set in the wall and protected by a wire grill. There was a small window high up that would probably admit the direct rays of the sun for about twenty minutes every day.

Hoss explained, “Here are the prison rules, Bart. The cell doors are open except between the hours of midnight and six a.m. During those hours, they are locked. Otherwise prisoners are pretty much free to move about as they wish. The can take communal showers, go to the exercise room, the laundry, the craft shop, or to the library. If there are any, and I mean ANY disturbances, we are locked in our cells. Any questions?”

“Uh, not right now, although I’m sure I’ll have some tomorrow.”

“Good. Now here are MY rules. I try to keep the men in some kind of order, because the Warden and most of the guards are pretty decent. If we cooperate with their rules, the warden allows us some freedom within these walls. I will not allow gang rapes of young prisoners. If two men want to ‘get it on’ with each other or if some of the guys want to have a ‘circle jerk’ in the showers, that’s all well and good.

“Sounds like this place is not so bad for a prison, Hoss.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s one more thing. As I said, I try to prevent the young prisoners from being raped, BUT, God help the predator or child molester who lands in here. We have four men who have children on the outside, and I let them have the first go-round at, shall we say ‘adjusting the attitudes’ of the scumbag. After the four men have finished with the said scumbag, all the other guys can have a turn if they want.”

As Hoss’ words sank in, Bart shuddered to think what those ‘attitude adjustment’ sessions might be like.

“One more thing, Bart. This is my cell. I’ve spoken to one of the screws, and I told him that I was ‘taking you under my wing’ for a while, for your own sake.”

For a while Bart and Hoss sat and talked about many matters. Suddenly a voice came over the loudspeaker, “Lockdown in five minutes. All prisoners will return to their cells NOW.”

There was a rush of footsteps as men ran to get in their cells before the cage doors were locked.  There was a loud CLANG! CLANG! CANG! As cellblock after cellblock was locked down for the night.

All through their conversation, Bart realized he was becoming more and more attracted to this gentle giant. Bart was gay, and somehow he wanted to express his feelings of respect, gratitude, esteem (It couldn’t be love, could it? Not in such a short time!). But Bart wanted to come out to Hoss.

Finally, Bart took a deep breath and looked at Hoss, looked into his eyes, and said, “And what are you going to do to me, now that you have ‘marked me as yours,’ as you told the others in the showers.”

“Do ‘to’ you? Why nothing. I’ve already said I don’t approve of rape-group rape or one-on-one rape, either,” Hoss answered with a smile.

“But it would only be rape if I didn’t consent, wouldn’t it?” asked Bart, still looking into Hoss’ eyes.

“Then, Bart, there might be some things we could do ‘with’ each other, but only if you like the idea.”

“Hoss, I like the idea of ‘doing things with’ you very much, and right now, I’d like to . . . Oh, just lie back on your bunk and let me take charge.”

Hoss reclined on his bunk, and Bart knelt down, and put his own face close to Hoss’ crotch. He let the red hairs of Hoss’ bush tickle his nose and cheeks. He took in  Hoss’ manly aroma. Gently, Bart kissed the side of Hoss’ cock, which was rapidly stiffening. He let his tongue swirl across the helmet and move back and forth across the opening.

Hoss moaned.

Bart turned his attention to Hoss’ balls. He pulled the ball sack up against the underside of Hoss’ penis. He let his fingers lightly trace the sensitive area between the nuts. He let his tongue trace the same route.

Hoss moaned again. “Ummm, . . .  feels . . . . good.”

Bart now took the whole helmet into his mouth and began to suck, gently at first, but harder and harder. His lips savored the sweet drops of precum that gathered at the opening. His lips curled around the veiny, meaty shaft; his head moved up and down faster, and faster, AND FASTER UNTIL . . .

Hoss called out, “Aahhh! Aahhh!  Aaaiiieeeh!”

Great ropes of sweet cum shot out of his penis into Bart’s eager mouth.  As Hoss moaned his final “Aaaaaaahhh!” the sound of applause came from the rest of the cellblock. The other prisoners had guessed what was happening when they heard Hoss’ first moan. The other prisoners, clapped, shouted, “Good for you, Hoss,” and “You want to eat me next big boy?”

Hoss took Bart’s head in his hands and said “My turn next,” and then he called out to the other prisoners, “You’ll never know so eat your hearts out, or suck your own cell mate’s cock.”

There were more sounds of laughter and cries of “Woo hoo.” Several prisoners did turn to their cell mates and say, “Well, do you wanna . . .?” A lot of prisoners went to sleep that night quite satisfied.

In the guards’ office that overlooked the cell block, Officer Jenkins looked at Officer Thompson and said, “Hmmmm, it’s my turn tonight. Drop your slacks and assume the position!” Thompson said, “Ooooh, good. I love your way of taking charge. Do it!”

In two minute both guards, handsome, well-built men in their late thirties were completely naked, their long pendulous penises rising from a vertical position to a hardened upright position. Thompson bent forward and braced his hands on the office wall. Jenkins stood behind him, and with one firm attack penetrated the quivering pucker of his partner.

Thompson let out one “Aaarrrgh!” which quickly changed to ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ of pleasure as Jenkins’ rock hard shaft of muscle and cartilage moved in and out of his love canal. All too soon Jenkins had shot his cannon-load of creamy cum into Thompson’s all too willing tuckus.

As they were putting on their clothes, Thompson said to his penetrator, “Tomorrow, I’m gonna bring some lube to increase the sensation.” 

“Yeh.” said Jenkins, “You’ve got a nice ass, buddy, but you know what?  I can’t help thinkin’ that I’d like to try some of those young’uns down in the shower room. Guess we couldn’t get away with that though; the warden would throw us out on our ears if we did.”

In their cell Bart and Hoss were exchanging kisses of love and passion. Both had experienced the most passionate love-making of their lives. They knew they were bound to one another as partners.

They fell asleep on Hoss’ bunk, lying in each others’ arms. Uncomfortable? Probably! Cramped? Certainly! But to them it was the sweetest, loveliest couch in the world.

As time went by, Bart and Jacob began to talk to some of the other prisoners about what they wanted to do if they were ever released from ‘stir.’ Many hoped they would be able to join the real world, get jobs, and try to live normal lives. Some confessed that they were afraid they wouldn’t be able to land a job because they lacked training.

By 1998 Bart and Hoss had encouraged some of the other convicts to enroll in correspondence courses. They talked to the warden and tried to convince him to have speakers come in and talk to the men about politics, business, the job market, television, movies, computers, anything that might spur the inmates to take an interest in the outside world.

The warden became more and more receptive as he saw that as the men began to develop hope for a better future, they became more cooperative. Hoss and Bart set up a Court of Cons to listen to complaints and grievances and to try to settle disputes amicably. Fights became a rarity.

It was a proud and happy day in 1999 when Schmidt and Mueller announced that they had completed their course work and had earned their A. A.  [Associate of Arts] degrees in health work from Baltimore Community College. Not only that, but they had written to several local hospitals, and told them the truth about their backgrounds, AND they had been offered jobs when they were released! As they were both due to be released in three months, it looked as if their futures were secured.

The success of Schmidt and Mueller encouraged more inmates to enroll in correspondence courses.

Bart and Hoss were the acknowledged leaders of the inmates. Even the guards spoke pleasantly to them.

The two men turned their attention to the problem of sex in the shower room. They called a meeting of all the inmates, and it was decided that those who only wanted to shower to get clean would have the use of the shower from 7:30 to 8:30 each evening. Those who thought they might like to engage in some ‘fun and games’ could take their showers from 8:30 to 9:30. They would be free to ‘soap up’ and ‘grope up,’ or engage in whatever kind of  activity might come to their horny sex-starved minds and bodies. Hoss made it clear that there would be no ‘forced sex,’

This system worked well. Men who were so-inclined could relieve their tensions. Warden Simmons heard talk of this new system, and he decided that, as long as there were no fights or rapes, he would turn a ‘blind ear’ and a ‘deaf eye’ to the situation. He instructed the guards not to interfere.

On 6 May 2000 an inmate was admitted to the prison. Randy Pfeister was the most hated and loathed type of criminal; he was a predator, who had sexually abused several young boys in his neighborhood, until the parents learned what he had been doing. A successful businessman, his own lawyer didn’t even want to defend him. At age 45, five-foot-nine, he had a pleasant face and would have passed for a ‘regular Joe’ anywhere.

Bart and Hoss called a meeting of the inmates. “Gentlemen,” Hoss began, “Our rule has been ‘NO FORCED SEX!’ but  believe that sometimes the punishment has to fit the crime. Bert, Chuck, Danny, and Eddie, you have children on the outside. What would you suggest?”

Bert spoke up first, “I’d cut his body parts off and stuff them in his mouth.”

“No,” Chuck said, “We have to make him feel some pain first. Don’t worry, Hoss, we’ll come up with something.”

The four put their heads together, and after some low murmurs among themselves, Danny announced, “We’ve come a long way as a group, and we want to make an example of this crud. We hope you’ll all be in the showers tonight from 7:30 on.”

By 7:40 all the inmates were in the showers, naked, and ready to mete out whatever punishment might come. Bart and Hoss had gone to Pfeister’s cell, to escort him to the showers. As Pfeister walked into the shower area, he quickly became aware of what was in store for him. His knees began to buckle.

Bert spoke: “All right, you piece of shit, we’re going to let you feel what your victims must have felt. Kneel!”

“STOP RIGHT NOW,” a voice rang out. Into the shower walked two guards, Jenkins and Thompson. Both were naked except for jock straps. Thompson carried a broom handle.

“All right, all of you cons. Get back. Officer Thompson and I will see to this,” Jenkins snarled. “We both have relatives who have been sexually abused by predators, and we are going to deal with this . . . this . . . worthless . . . .”  He couldn’t find words to describe Pfeister.

Jenkins sat on the bench and took off his jock strap; his organ, semi-hard, hung down and out. “All right, Pfeister, you’re gonna suck me off, just like you made those boys suck you off, and if I feel your teeth in my cock just once, my partner is going to put that broom handle where you will feel it most. Understand?”

Pfeister could only nod his head in dumb acknowledgement that he understood.

“Now you gentlemen, after Thompson and I leave, I urge you not to touch him, but . . . he heh heh, he’s going to be pretty sore when we’re done with him. I think it would be right neighborly of you all, to soothe his aching body with whatever fluids you might care to deposit on his body, if you catch my drift!”

“Right, we get you. Thanks. No touching, but rinsing, washing, or spraying from a distance is allowed,” one of the inmates said. “That’ll show him.”

We will draw the curtain on the events of the next half hour. Let us just say that during the community ‘washing’ of Randy Pfeister, Bart and Hoss were among the first to empty their bladders on the shivering, quivering, slimebag.

When Warden Simmons heard rumors of what had happened, he said to anybody who asked him, “The prisoner had made no complaint to him, and he (the warden) did not listen to gossip.” Privately he thought, ‘Serves the bastard right!’

The years passed and Bart and Hoss saw more and more of the inmates taking classes, earning college credits and training for careers on the glorious day when they would be free.

Bart became concerned for his lover. Hoss seemed to be getting more and more tired as the days wore on. On 15 November, 2007, Hoss collapsed, falling to the floor in the cafeteria. He was rushed to the infirmary. Bart was allowed to go to him, but when he got there the doctor just shook his head. “He’s gone, Jacobs. We think it was his heart. I’m sorry.”

Bart almost collapsed himself. He had to be helped to his cell where he just lay on the bunk, mourning his friend, wondering why this happened. He refused to eat, he didn’t want to talk to anybody.

Two days later, a guard came to his cell and told him, “The Warden wants to see you.”

In the Warden’s office, Simmons greeted him and asked him to sit down.

“Jacobs, you and Johnson have done so much to help these inmates rebuild their lives that I know you, and all of us are going to miss him. Now, I am going to do something highly irregular . . .”

Bart was so lost in his fog of grief that he hardly could take in the warden’s words.

“. . . highly irregular. I am going to attend Johnson’s funeral, and I want you to come with me. We will provide appropriate clothes for you to wear. You will have an ankle bracelet that transmits your location, so that if we become separated for some reason, we will be able to find you.  Would you want to go?”

Bart looked at the Warden, and with tears glistening on his cheeks, he managed to say, “Oh, yes, sir. I would. Thank you.”

Simmons went on, “I’ve spoken to the family. They know that you were a close friend of Johnson’s, and that the two of you did a lot to better the lives of the inmates. Of course, I KNOW nothing about your personal relationships and I don’t think anybody in the family will say anything awkward.”

The day of the funeral was cold and rainy. Warden Simmons and Bart Jacobs left the prison at 9:30 am, and arrived at the funeral home at 11:00. The Warden introduced Bart to Hoss’s parents and a sister, and they sat quietly, waiting for the service to begin.

Bart was able to maintain his composure throughout the service, and throughout the drive to the cemetery and through the brief committal service. At the end of the service, as the small group of mourners was getting ready to disburse, Hoss’s mother came up to Bart, and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Hoss often talked about you in his letters. He told me what a good friend you were to him, and how the two of you worked to help the other prisoners. All I can say is ’Thank you,’ and  'God Bless You.’”

She pulled Bart into a tight hug and said, “If you ever are able to leave the prison, come to us. We will welcome you as a friend of Hoss’s.”

With that Bart broke down, he held Mrs. Johnson tightly and all he could say was “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.”

The ride back to the prison was quiet. The Warden and Jacobs were each lost in his own thoughts. As the car pulled up to the gates of the prison, Jacobs suddenly said, “Huh! You know Warden, call me crazy, but I almost feel like I’m coming home. Yeah, I guess I’m crazy all right.”

Bart settled back into his usual routine of eating his meals, exercising in the workout room, and talking to the others, listening, advising, encouraging, listening, just as he and Hoss had done.

On 22 March 2008, Officer Thompson came to Bart’s cell with a look of excitement, half suppressed, on his face. “Warden wants to see you, Jacobs.”

As they walked down the hall to the door that led to the administrative offices of the prison, Thompson said, “Jacobs, you’ve been a good man, a good prisoner. You and Hoss have done a lot. We’re going to miss you.”

“Wadsa ya mean, miss me?” Jacobs asked.

“Oops, me and my big mouth! Well you didn’t hear this from me, but the word is that the Warden’s arranged a parole hearing for you. He’s recommending that you be released early!”

Bart was so surprised that he couldn’t speak.

Just then the doors opened and two guards escorted a new prisoner in—a young man not much more than nineteen or twenty, short and of slender build, and looking scared, and vulnerable. His blue eyes seemed to dart from side to side and he looked as if he were about to shout ‘Help me. Help me, somebody, please.’

As Bart and the new prisoner approached each other, their eyes locked for a moment or two, and Bart thought, ‘He reminds of me when I first came here.’

“So listen to me, Jacobs, me and the other guards wish you well,” Thompson continued, “Don’t screw up. You don’t want to kill your chances with the Parole Board, after all the Warden has tried to do for you.”

“Uh, no, no, of course not,” Bart replied, but his mind was racing.  Suddenly he stopped, and said, “Thompson, please forgive me for what I am about to do.”

With that, Bart hauled off and punched the guard as hard as he could in the gut, and shouted, “Take that, you dirty son of a bitch.”

As luck would have it, at that exact moment, the door to the Warden’s office opened and Warden Simmons stepped into the hall. He saw and heard everything.

“Jacobs, get in my office, right NOW!”

Jacobs went into the office, pushed none too gently by Thompson. There were four other people in the office, members of the Parole Board, looking curiously at this ‘model prisoner,’ whose fate they were to decide.

“Jacobs, do you know why I sent for you.?”

“No, Sir, and I don’t give a frigging damn, either.”

The Warden looked as if Jacobs had just punched him in the stomach. “This is the Parole Board.  They are here at MY request, to see if YOU might deserve an early release, but YOU had to pick this minute to go off your head.”

“Ah, shut YOUR face. Warden. I don’t give a friggin’ shit about what YOU were going to do. These people come in here and think that THEY can decide MY fate. Well, let ME tell YOU, Mr. Warden, I will decide MY OWN fate.

“I think we’ve heard enough, Warden,’ said the Chairman of the Parole Board. I don’t think this person is ready to go back to the outside. He should serve his full sentence!”

“I am afraid I have to agree with you. Ladies and gentlemen I apologize for wasting your time. Guard, take this prisoner back to his cell.”

On their way back to the cell, Jacobs said, “Thompson I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?”

“No you didn’t, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“Never mind, I’m going quietly.”

Word of Jacobs’ tantrum had spread like wildfire throughout the prison, and so had news of the arrival of a vulnerable, young, sexy looking inmate. Some of the inmates thought they might enjoy a little ‘fun’ with the new guy.

In the showers that night, men stood waiting for the arrival of the new prisoner. He came in, wearing only a towel around his waist. His body was shaking a little as if he were nervous, and perhaps he had a right to be nervous.

“Hey, cutie, you want to jerk me off—with your mouth, sweet lips?” said one inmate.

“Nah!" said another, "I think we should play ‘ride the horsey.’"

"I always wanted to do it bareback,” said yet another.

“NO!” came a voice from the bench on the side of the room.

The newcomer looked to where the voice originated. He saw a tall man, with curly hair, blue eyes, and a sardonic smile on his face. He was sitting with one arm raised above his head, the back of his hand against the wall. The other hand rested on his hip, and he was displaying a magnificent cock and set of family jewels.

“Leave him be. He’s mine.”

The End.

Feedback always welcome.    

Author’s note: I am indebted not only to Ed but to that buddy who doesn’t feel that his name (or any others, for that matter) should be listed in the credits for simple comments, suggestions, or any small bit of proof-reading or editorializing. The buddy not only sent me some ‘visual inspirations’ for this story, but also gave me some good technical advice.

Encourager’s Comments:  Well, this story certainly proves that history does repeat itself.  I think everyone will agree with me that our author has packed a lot of action into one story.  Poor Bart’s life was like a roller coaster ride.  Let’s hope he is able to get off the ride at some point and grow old gracefully.  E

Posted: 11/21/08