Doug Ellis

Welcome! Perhaps, welcome back! If you're looking for a recap in order to remember who and what you're dealing with or you just stumbled on this as a new story hoping for a hot one, I recommend you go back to earlier in this series. I had to. it's been seven years since I wrote the last episode and I'd forgotten it completely until somebody, at the end of episode 9 left a comment asking me to finish it. Six years ago, the story went right off the rails into very dark territory. Three more murders and all kinds of macabre stuff. It's not what these experiences are about and if you wanted crime fiction you wouldn't be looking here. Given the course my life was taking it doesn't surprise me that I never submitted those episodes.

Doug Ellis 10

It's a fact of life that you get a good thing going and somebody wants in on it.

Call it jealousy, call it survival, it doesn't matter. You're making a killing, someone wants a piece of it and is prepared to take it from you. You have a relationship which impinges on some third party who does not enjoy those benefits, sooner or later they will put a spoke into your rolling wheel.

The legitimacy of how that process happens is what laws are about. If it's the tax officer at the door? Well, that's sanctioned by society, although when it comes down to it, we all think it is criminal when they make off with our hard earned money. Compare that to some street urchin putting a gun in your guts and demanding money and you have a crude model for why prisons exist and how, ultimately, they work or don't work.

***

Lee Dursley has been waiting for a long time to find out who is at the door. Musclebound, half naked and dazed from disturbing dreams, lying in a congealing pool of his own cum, he hears another, more urgent knock.

Meanwhile, his unofficial boss, security chief, Singleton, who appears to have the entire prison in the palm of his hand, has been in conference with the prison governor for far too long. He has missed urgent calls from Dursley about a fatal shooting that could destabilise his complacent view of the lucrative little business he'd got going in and out of the jail.

Ellis lay on his bunk meditating. The turmoil of his past life safely locked away, thinking of his training objectives and how he could best make use of his 3 half hour weights sessions per week, what exercise could he do in the confines of the cell and how best he could supplement the bland and meagre diet on the wing.

Harry Bantock, PT Senior Officer, was off duty, mulling over the massive changes brought on him having had another man touch his erection and having spattered his cum all over a fellow serving officer in the prison gym.

His mind raced as he also remembered his instant, instinctive reaction to the sight of Alun Dent's disproportionate dong, his diminutive protege then taking his throbbing cock right into his throat and gulping down the gym instructors jizz as if it was mana from heaven, then while he was dazed and confused the little guy licked and kissed his arse and tunnelled away into his hole, not only unbidden but with extreme enthusiasm, prodding into Bantock's body and generating sensations he'd never imagined a man could experience, bucking his hips for more and nearly buckling under. the power of the orgasm it gave him.

What more could there be? His imagination was wild but he was so fearful.

Out of curiosity, barely rational, panting and quivering with guilt and excitement, as the thick warm juice spurted and oozed out of the head of his raging hard-on, he tentatively put the goo to his lips to taste. Strange. Sweet. Peppery.

Calmer, his pulse slowing, he played with its gelatinous mass as he pondered what had happened and what could befall if Dent blabbed about what had happened. Fingers unconsciously wound into the tangle of hairs on his taught belly and he thought of the potency of this goo, where it had come from in his body, how it might start a new life both literally and metaphorically and then, more soberly, he thought how it could wreck his career and his friendships if he couldn't get the beast inside him under control.

In the afterglow of orgasm, Harry longed to know more. He longed to know how Dent could just open his mouth and take cock without thinking. How could he put the whole of Harry's fat erection into his mouth anyway, into his throat and not even gag, actually get a thrill off it fucking into his face.

Burnt in, retina images, pulsated in his mind.

He genuinely thought he was going crazy. His thoughts darted from here to there. It was like a whole new universe had opened up in front of him. A world of lust and pleasure but also a chasm into which he could fall at any moment. His experiences of sex with women all seemed too formal and contrived. There was none of the explosive spontaneity, the raw power. Sure, he could get excited, he was expected to do the driving. Okay, he'd miss the closeness, the warmth, the love (had he only ever felt....what exactly?). Was it possible to have that too? He had to talk to somebody.

He thought about the prison counselling service, available to all staff. They were dedicated and he'd seen them work wonders on despairing colleagues amongst the uniform staff. Too close for comfort though, it's supposed to be confidential but everyone knows you're seeing the counsellors. He needed something more independent. The Samaritans?

***

Dursley hadn't showed up for his shift. A call put through to the Prison gate told Singleton that Dursley had deposited his keys that morning, after the night shift and had not re-entered the institution. No call had come in to report sickness or accident but Singleton was sure that Dursley would report in to him before all else. Since the early afternoon, no further attempt to contact him had been made.

Singleton was an angry man. Deep down, angry and frustrated that his potential was not recognised. His seniority at the freemason's lodge gave him a certain satisfaction as it granted him leverage with both his boss, the prison governor and the head of the local police department. He considered both to be weak and lily livered liberals. It also gave him a veneer of respectability, as did his long suffering (loving) wife and their 3 children (so much more an emphatic statement of his manhood than 2).

Hard men get used to making tough decisions. They cannot deal in sentiment and wishy washy compromises. Singleton didn't worry about situations, he dealt with them. Being right wasn't about rules and regulations it was about being right. He ran a simple, profitable operation, the paymasters paid, everyone was satisfied. Doubts and anxieties were for weak men.

Dursley, he knew, was a tight lipped operator, as much disliked as he was liked. Or rather respected. Singleton knew that Dursley was, to some extent, feared. Like himself, Dursley knew the pleasure that intimidating relationship could bring. He easily mistook fear for respect, one of many chinks in the armour of any bully. For that was, after all, what these two men shared. The joy of bullying.

As head of security, Singleton could go anywhere in the institution, unlock any door, including the governor's office, even the governor's filing cabinet. He despised the governor and his assistants, who sucked up to prison reformers and to volunteers like the prison visitors. Outsiders, toffs, graduates with fancy ideas which jeopardised discipline. Without discipline the prison would be overrun by the inmates.

Like everyone else who'd been raised before the revolution in communications technology brought about by the smart phone, Singleton had underestimated its potential. Younger colleagues had argued that it was the key to future security, that controlling it's ubiquitous capabilities was crucial in a world where inmates would be as skilled at manipulating its uses as any authority. Little did he know that his own man was tracked by his mobile, spied on by his mobile, that half the prison knew Dursley carried it in and out of the prison illegally and was paid, with all kinds of favours for the use of it.

***

"Thank you! Yes. I'll try their number." Bantock hung up the landline he'd used to call the Samaritans and looked at the scrap of paper in front of him for what seemed like minutes before he could bring himself to dial.

In the seconds before the receiver at the other end was picked up, he felt his life flash past him like a drowning man. Not only that but a crushing fear and homophobia he knew that in real life he would put a conscious professional barrier in place to prevent. How could he fit in with all that camp, how could he ever find anything in common.... then he remembered Dent and his powerful little body, his perfect powerlifting technique, his frothing body hair, his firm handshake, his appetite for swallowing cock, his...... a woman answered and he snapped out of his confusion and put on a businesslike caller voice without even missing a blink.

Diving right in, as if dealing with a gaggle of excited lifers for the first time, he realised he had skills and experience and courage. "I'm thirty eight, " he said "I just started having sex experiences with men." a very short pause but he was o a roll now " I'm not sure what that means and I really need to talk to someone about it." It was as if he'd just squeezed a persistent pimple as a teenager. The pus hit the mirror and he knew it would be days before the sting and the red sore disappeared but he'd got the poison out. He felt like punching the air!

"Great! Well, Welcome!" said the anonymous voice. "We can open a conversation now if you want to, I can promise you total confidentiality, our calls are not recorded for training or quality purposes." She quipped in a parody of the typical corporate greeting.

Bantock was caught totally off guard. The last thing he expected in his condition was humour.

"Alternatively, we can arrange for you to meet a counsellor face to face and if that works for you a short series of sessions can be arranged. " The tone of the voice darkened very slightly. "For security, in any first face to face session, our counsellor will be chaperoned and the meeting will take place at our premises." The tone brightened once more, "If you find that you can get what you need in phone sessions, many clients do, a call schedule can be drawn up for that."

The question of personal safety struck a chord with Harry as he listened. He'd seen the result of homophobic attacks in the jail. It could be sudden and vicious.

He wanted to believe he wasn't gay, he wasn't homosexual. He thought he'd got over feeling it was wrong but he was really struggling to get over feeling it was wrong for him.

His head was still full of the highly visible, colourful characters representing those concepts. Where were all the other men who had sex with men? Where were all the Dents and the Gregorys?

All the macho bullshit. All the show that goes on in the prison (note to self) in which he was a regular participant, so that no-one thought you might be. Complex webs of rituals and mannerisms. How deep all that stuff goes in daily life, in the media. What a huge waste of conscious effort!

That first call was forty minutes long. He'd talked more or less continually. What amazed him was that he could say anything, ask anything. when he'd started the call he was feeling like he was falling through an avalanche and ended it feeling like he was on a pair of skies, still speeding down hill, not knowing where he was going or how to steer of stop but glad that he hadn't been crushed.

***

Back in the lifer unit, Matt Higson wondered what had suddenly gone so right for him? He had a sore arse but that would surely be right as rain in a few days if Carson eased up a bit on his pounding salami and gave him more of the tongue bath.

He'd got a bit more than he'd bargained for as a first timer but he'd loved it.

What had he been expecting, showing his arse hole to a career thug with "Hate" tattooed on his left fist, "Love" tattooed on his right fist and a dagger tattooed on his raging, 8" hard on. I guess you only get to see the details when it's too late. Carson was up for it, Higson was up for it. Boom! It had happened.

The lads all knew they were fucking, some of them hooted from behind their locked doors when they heard the action kicking off in 315. The wing SO could have shipped one or other of them out but everywhere was overcrowded and here were two heavy dudes, doing life for ghastly violent offences, they were causing no trouble to any other individuals. If a thing ain't broke, don't fix it.

Higson was not given much to reason. He'd try almost anything and that was probably why he'd been in trouble since he was a kid. He would see a way forward and want to give it a go.

He'd seen enough straight porn but somehow he just knew what to do.

Facing a very long time in jail, a lot of men would rather die than let it be known they were engaging in sex with a cellmate, in particular that your cellmate was fucking your brains out several times a day and that you were loving it. They all thought about sex, he knew that. What else was there to think about? The food. The radio. The ping pong table. When you'd be getting out and in a lifer unit it was best to keep your mind off that.

Somehow, there was still something very wrong about sucking off one of the "Screws" for favours. He could name names but he wouldn't. Maybe they would just let the guy use their mouth but he couldn't understand how that would please the officer without all the licking and sucking. It was a special kind of man who got off on humiliation and cruelty.

He would be "Hig the pig" for taking it up the arse but only when he wasn't in earshot of the name calling or else the teeth were gonna fly.

Carson hadn't knowingly contributed to Higson's pleasure. The massive, red bearded hulk had taken what he needed. Higs might have been torn apart by taking such a fat cock as a first try but the slavering Carson had lubed up his virgin hole for him like a pro, chomping away at the flesh like an animal and making the target of his lust as hungry to open up for that frustrated cock as Higson was gagging to take it.

Carson was just as much a pig for eating up Higson's hairy arse but for most of the boys on the wing that kind of thing, eating a man's arse, lay outside the scope of even their wildest imaginings of sex. To Carson, a cunt was a cunt. He wasn't about to force himself on Higson. The man was about as big as himself and could do him a lot of damage but when Higs offered up his cherry, Carson was on it like rat up a drainpipe.

That first time, Carson was on a hair trigger. Totally wound up with an obsessive need to blow his load, his hormones tormenting him day and night, he'd come in a split second after his cockhead burst into Higson's virgin hole.

Both of them tired of thinking up ways to wank off his burden without attracting the attention of his cell mate, each holding his breath. Sure it was quiet but the sudden absence of breathing was as noticeable as the gasps of orgasm and they'd end up having a coughing fit. why not just relax and enjoy it. Unless the walls of the jail fell down, neither was getting out of there for a decade and probably a lot more.

So now, here was a win win situation. Whenever Carson felt horny, which seemed to be all the time and perfectly natural for a man in the prime of his life, he only had to let Higson know that there was fuel in that pocket rocket and Higson was ready to ride.

If Carson felt lazy, Higs was even prepared to fold up his six foot labourer physique into the space between the two bunks, squatting over Carsons face. Carson had become a born again butt muncher. He was in heaven with his bearded chops chowing down on Higson's hairy arse hole. Thrusting his lewd tongue up into his cellmate's body, in so doing, working them both up into an eye popping frenzy.

Carson would be leaking pearly dew drops of pre-cum and the slippery goo made his plunge into Higson's overheated guts altogether seamless with the flow of the action. Higs bobbing up and down on that pillar of priapus as Carson helplessly spasmed and twitched through the delivery of his baby batter into Higson's welcoming butt. Practice makes perfect, as they say. Truth to tell, doggy style was more practical in enclosed spaces but as soon as Carson realised how good it felt when Higson shot his own wad, Carson was trying in vain to hold off from coming to make the most of those internal contractions that gripped his cock like a clenching fist.

Either way, the combination of that big bastards balls bouncing on his furry belly and the animal look on Higson's grimacing features made it well worth fucking this way round. The pair of them barely conscious, out of breath, sweaty, spattered in spunk and saliva, Higson toppling over onto Carson with that hot log still jammed up his arse, their faces so close, forehead to scarred forehead, Carson laughs with boyish pleasure, they both laugh at Higson, still shuddering his orgasm. Carson sticks out his tongue, Higson plunges onto it just as his arse had plunged onto Carson's cock and they locked into a kiss like neither had felt before. Lust, returned in a way that only another man can. It was like they were devouring one another and laughing into one another's mouth as they tangled tongues and lips and gasped to recover their breath..