1 comments/  9555 views/  3 favorites

Doug Ellis Ch. 01

By: muffinbod



This story series is based on real life experiences with names and some incidents changed for the sake of confidentiality.

*****

Doug Ellis would have been a heavily built man even if he'd never been engaged in manual work and then, later, obsessively into the gym.

Not more than five feet eleven when his generations were suddenly outgrowing their predecessors, he'd learned at an early teen age that, with a bit of momentum, he could bring down boys and men far bigger and potentially stronger than himself. Though he was always a powerhouse and it pleased him to be, he always wanted to be stronger.

Cropped, dusty blond, icy grey/blue eyes and pale skinned, he was covered in a fine down of almost colourless hair, even on the farthest digits. 

He'd been inside for almost 2 years, not for the first time but now for a very long stretch. The Judge had said "let 'life' mean life". The first year acclimatising to life in prison again after the unsettled 15 months of 'remand in custody', trial and sentencing. Back and forth from cell to court, different cell mates, different wing communities, different challenges. He had a reputation, not from his actions but just assumption based on appearances, as a very tough man and people left him alone. That was the way he liked it. He rarely spoke to people and his cold eyes, massive, musclebound walk and thick neck were enough of a disincentive to conversation, so men tended to return the favour. The rumours of cold, cruel and calculating did him no harm at all.

Once he settled into a routine his mind could flatline and the world was just an operation to be repeated. The heady life of a nightclub bouncer in the hottest happening places of London, the glitter of celebrities, royalty, the high class whores, the 'sugar', the gym, the roid rage. All sealed up behind a wall of steel inside his memory. People knew the circumstances of his sentence and what had brought it upon him. That information, though inadequate as a personal profile, contributed to space he was granted by fellow inmates.

In a lifer unit, association time is carefully controlled, as hierarchy struggles are often played out in the showers, food or medication queues and even classes. These scuffles rarely developed into serious fights and Doug would turn his back, disinterested. Challenges were a fact of life since he'd been a small boy, he'd always lived in a very masculine world, aggression was common and someone always wants to topple the top dog. Doug never wanted to be number one.

Even after 2 years without a gym, his body moved with obvious power, few had seen Doug in the showers, he got himself clean, looked at no-one and was escorted back to his cell. He had a routine of morning and evening exercises that had stopped the slide into a flabby laziness. 

He carried a massive muscularity with none of the posing associated with cosmetic body building and was not outwardly proud of his appearance. His power lay in his mass not in perfect proportion. He'd not have got through the preliminary round of even big city body building competitions and had no interest in exhibiting his body. His blond body hair would not be shaved to show his sinuous chest, back and abdomen. His arse stuck out like a shelf, a sure way to spot a serious power lifter but his chest was high and his back poker straight thanks to good technique. 

But tongues wag. The man was stacked in muscle and undeniably, someone around the wing would have seen his magnificent genitals. Doug was not troubled by this. What none had seen but many had imagined it's full potential, erect, the head of his dick was as big as a woman's clenched fist. The man behind that startling weapon when it was at attention was too busy enjoying the pulse and the weight of it and the surge of adrenaline which accompanied its inflated state to care about what went on in other people's minds. However, like the rest of his past life, he had a fortress in his mind in which to lock down his libido, so, unlike many of his co confined, his testicles did not overrule his thinking. His every enjoyment of his own body came from how it felt to be Doug Ellis.

A lot is misunderstood about men's interaction in long term prison without the potential for a woman's company. It is believed by some that men turn to one another automatically for mutual or non-consensual sexual relief but the taboo surrounding man on man sex is immensely strong. The weakness inferred by having engaged in sex with a cell mate prevents many from crossing that line and after a while the sexual starvation is normalised and men get used to living without., dealing in a variety of ways with the occasional, unbearable peaks of hormone levels. Occasionally, one of the men is inclined to improve his lot on the wing by giving favours in return for protection, better food, drugs or even just for fun and these men are sometimes treated as the property of one prisoner as a wife might be dominated outside the prison walls. 

Most often, a tit mag is the answer for those men who have to go without, just as it is outside.

It is always assumed that the men on the wing would choose sex with a woman if it were offered, so deeply engrained in our psyche is the orthodoxy of heterosexuality that you dare not assume otherwise. This assumption makes the gossip and innuendo you hear all the more puzzling and intriguing.

Did this have an impact on Ellis? Well apparently not. Prison staff at all levels pondered the question of prisoner sexuality at some time or other in their career, some, perhaps those with vested interests, obsessively gathered data on the question. Some used or abused their position in the equation. What Doug knew of it he kept to himself and no-one had anything on him. As if he was a stone, his emotions were level, his behaviour towards the staff impeccable but not ingratiating, he did as he was bid, no more, no less and for his level constancy he was eventually rewarded.

Exercise. Everyone got exercise in the yard if it was fine but only a few were afforded the privilege of the gym. Only half an hour, closely supervised, three times per week but he and five other lifers were escorted through the gate at the end of the wing, firstly into the anti-chamber between wings, then out of the buildings into daylight, all too briefly, then into the single storey prison gym. 

If your vision is conjuring for you the interactive CV platforms and scientifically designed cable machines of contemporary fitness training, in a carpeted, mirror lined room, forget it. This was much more like a school gym set up for circuits. A few pads on the floor and free weights, ancient but comprehensive dumbbell and barbell sets, a pro squat stand, a very wide chinning bar and a frame for dips. Just two rowers. 

Two officers accompanied the small squad, one of whom was the prison's chief physical education instructor, Mr. Bantock, the other a towering African; Mr. Gregory, a regular guard but no stranger to this part of the prison, making good use of the facility when the prisoners were locked up and when he was granted leisure to challenge his own body. In addition, two big men accompanied the lifers, men that none but the gym detail boys had seen before, the gym orderlies, whose job in the prison was to tidy the gym, they also got the opportunity to study for P.E. and coaching qualifications. Carpenter, a tall Afro-Caribbean man with immense physique, who obviously trained obsessively after the chores were done and a small, white man, Dent, who looked incongruous among so many powerful forms, a deceptive appearance, as we would all learn.

It was obvious to all present from this first session, where they barely got to touch the weights, that the self-discipline which had bought the group this privilege would be tested fully before any real freedom came to their training but it was a start. Impatience is a very destructive element in a any man, and it's a fast track to a padded cell and a straight-jacket for a lifer. Each man was critically assessed for training and given stretches and additional exercises to do between sessions which were much the same as those Doug Ellis had practiced since his incarceration began. 

Officer Bantock spoke briefly to Doug, sternly eye to eye. The same height but lighter in build, faster, a former middleweight boxer and kick boxer, confident, competent and in-charge of the situation. He had piled on the pounds in the prison gym, very much his domain but unlike Ellis, the muscle was an addition to his agility, flexibility and speed. Nothing whatever had escaped his stoney, monosyllabic responses to suggest Doug's admiration for Bantock but he instantly liked the man. In return, Bantock's incomprehension of the rock-like Ellis faded slightly with his instant affirmation of the instructor's ground rules and he knew he would get through to him, however, he could not have conceived the quite bizarre way this would. Bantock knew a power lifter when he saw one and had something particular in mind for Douglas Ellis.

In his office, tucked into the porch section between the inner and outer security gates of the gym, Bantock supervised Dent, who entered data onto the chart. Basic stats, initial assessment information. Height, weight. Blood pressure. All his own lunch time work. The officer knew Ellis was a find. Everything was right about him.

Realising the time and moving quickly from his desk back into the gym proper he shooed Dent out and then barked a few instructions to Carpenter who was escorted back to their wing for their meal and the obligatory afternoon lockdown. Bantock then went back to his quiet space to think before the first of the staff arrived for their private use of the weights.

A small changing room and showers were all that were required for the staff as numbers were few. It was also very basic, just a couple of bench seats, coat hooks, toilet and showers. Anyone who has seen this kind of old institution will get the clean but essentially grim image. The vast majority of prison staff choose to spend every free moment outside the security cordon, a kind of proof that they were not obliged to confinement. Smoking and drinking were common answers to the psychological questions asked of staff during their working lives and though there were some extraordinary exceptions, fitness for duty was not a high priority.

Officer Gregory carefully folded his uniform and unselfconsciously slipped into XXL white polo shirt, crammed his flaccid manhood into a cream coloured jock and pulled on dark blue cotton shorts, uncannily like those issued to the prisoners. Size 13 Vans made his big feet appear larger still but his power and elegance were obvious now the great black man approached the weights to complete his warm up. Another strong and silent character, somewhat isolated and having little in common with his colleagues, he focused his attention on his personal fitness and developing his finely chiseled body. As often before, at one with the gym space, silent except for his activity and all to himself ,the way he liked it.

Towards the end of his bench pressing he called out to Bantock, in his adjacent office, for a favour. Ever the instructor, a passionate advocate of the physical and mental benefits of good hard exercise, he was more than happy to support the efforts of any staff interested enough to use the gym. Mr. Gregory was one of Bantock's regulars and they liked one another, particularly as Gregory was interested in learning more about nutrition and exercise and Bantock enjoyed seeing the regular improvement as, month by month, Gregory piled on the weights. 

Right now he was glad of the intrusion into his thoughts as he just couldn't get the stone-like stare of Doug Ellis out of his mind. The gleaming black African was such a total contrast, and the cry of "Harry! Come and spot me!" coming from the bench got Bantock up and away from this obsessing and got his yet unacknowledged, uncustomary, intrusive feelings bothering his crotch up close to the heat coming off the head of the sweating man, pressing more than a tall guy with long arms ought to be able to press. Why Gregory should notice, with all that weight on the bar, and maxxed out on his final rep of the set, I don't know, but Gregory saw the outline of straightened cock in Bantock's gym pants and the bar crashed back into the stand without much help from Harry.

"What's on your mind, Harry?" panted Gregory, a little confused by the focus of his attention. Thinking that the wood above his nose might be for him and feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the tightness of his own coiled penis crammed into jock and shorts.

"Huh? Hey! Yeah. Good work, buddy." Completely ignoring the man's comment on his stubbornly stiff cock. "What about these powerlifters this morning? What do you think of Ellis?" blurted the instructor, seeking to divert the African away from potential embarrassment.

"You don't usually spot my bench press with an uncomfortable erection, Harry. There was I imagining you might have at last noticed that my attention to your instruction and advice on my training was accompanied by more than mere interest in the subject." Gregory was smiling hugely up at the bewildered coach. Not hurt, not exactly flattered by the realisation and not a little surprised that his 'off the cuff' comment was obviously more astute than he'd ever imagined. Both men were out of their comfort zone and struggling to understand the arrival of instinct beyond their experience.

Surprised, like a criminal caught in a sudden floodlight, Bantock stared down at his bulging pants with a growing realisation that he was not entirely in control of his carefully trained responses . The phenomenon had apparently given him a painfully inflated wood, on duty in the presence of another officer, who had not only seen it but had thought, however briefly, himself and his pulsating chest muscles were the cause of it. His brain was failing to rationalise this and was being denied and countermanded by his body. Agog, and as if paralysed, Harry Bantock fixated on his own groin as a swift hand reached up and snapped the waist of his pants down. without a word Officer Gregory's other hand deftly grabbed the knob of Bantock's cock which peaked around the seam of the instructor's jock and onto his powerful thigh. One more skilful manoeuvre and cock and balls were in the free air of the echoing gym space and could and indeed did bounce and twitch.

"Now isn't that what you needed?" Whispered the prone African.

"N nn nno..." responded the instructor, slowly regaining his senses and recognising the appalling transgression that had just occurred. He flushed with embarrassment and shock, but there is was, just above his sweating colleague's facial features, his cock and balls ready to go to work on or with another man. There was another man, a colleague, staring up at him beyond his genitals, his smiling face just inches from Harry's tumescent penis, not only that but the said other man had released it from his clothing had handled his excited cock, there was no way back from that fact.

Moments seemed to pass but it was a split second, Gregory took the initiative. With his right hand, he took out his own proud dick, a now jaw splitting log of a thing, rigid and deeply veined. With his left he carefully surrounded Bantock's throbbing shaft. The heat and strength of the grip brought the instructor out of his stupor totally but as it did he gasped and a spray of cum erupted from the head of his penis onto the chest of the man below and his legs buckled slightly before he caught himself on the resting, heavily loaded barbell.

"No. That was what I needed!" panted the disorientated instructor, with a laugh choked by a cough or gasp. Astonished at the beaming smile and fierce lust on Gregory's face, at his conflicted feelings, at the pounding right hand of his panting colleague whacking off towards orgasm right in front of him, lying on the press bench in what Bantock considered his gym and at the feeling that it was probably going to have to be ok because anything else was totally, unthinkably horrible. 

By the time this nanosecond self-examination was complete Gregory grunted and shot four bolts of jizz over shirt, bench, face and floor. 

Seconds later, fearing this could get ugly, while simultaneously and sincerely hoping that this was not a one off for either of them, with a sudden, lucid concern, through watering eyes straining to refocus, Gregory searched the wreckage of expressions flicking across the face of Harry Bantock. Thankfully he was seeing whoa looked like a recognition of where he was, who he was and what had just happened. The nostrils of the principal instructor flared briefly, there was a sharp sniff, a straightening of legs and back and then the faintest hint of a thin lipped, hesitant smile of resignation. What had happened had happened. The cum could not be put back in his dick and to his great surprise, he really had needed it.

Doug Ellis Ch. 02



The complex psychology of managing men in long term confinement requires intuition, intelligence and sensitivity. Rarely brute force. The institution, the walls, the doors, the gates, are as important an influence on behaviour as the security staff and, by and large, long term prisoners learn to go with the flow and in amazingly creative ways, make the best of their situation. No-one's saying it's easy but for some the security, the routines, the restriction give a stability lacking in the outside world where drink, drugs, financial pressures, relationships can all conspire to tip a man over the edge. The order, the apparent, relative safety, the predictability of life inside have an influence on staff and prisoner alike. That's not to say that there were no surprises.

Older city centre Jails are still common and though many have modernised, thanks to a lack of financial commitment from governing bodies many more are slow to implement recent developments in technology such as the use of CCTV which can now, and in theory relatively cheaply, turn a prison environment to something akin to Big Brother. 

This lack was of some relief to Harry Bantock as he lay in his bed and ran over the events of that lunchtime in the prison gym. His jaw clenched, his familiar self image in tatters and a cold dew of perspiration on his clean shaven upper lip. What was wrong with him? 

Gregory had not missed a beat, not given the situation a second thought and Harry was correct in assuming that, having sat up and wiped himself clean of both portions of man juice, then bench and the floor with his now cum soaked shirt, Gregory had showered and left behind any sense of guilt or shame about what had transpired between them, without losing the feeling of excitement and relief. Bantock's colleague was already in the land of dreams, snuggled against his wife, his children sleeping soundly in an adjacent room in their family accommodation a few doors away, the matter almost insignificant and not the least guilt or regret.

There had been no tenderness between the two men, no discussion, no thanks exchanged nor awkward apologies. To Gregory, it had been a function of his sex, nothing more. Bantock had been too stunned to say much and was not given to explaining his feelings anyway. Gregory had simply showered dressed and left unperturbed. 

His job required a hard man and Harry was that man. His image in the eyes of his colleagues and the inmates was all important and cultivated from the day he'd started in the prison service more than a decade before. The merest crack in that system of respect and, he imagined, it would all come crashing down. The golden rules were that you don't get friendly with the inmates, you don't get familiar with other officers and you stick to the rule book. He was a highly commended officer, he was respected and trusted by the governor, security department (by no means a certainty, as corruption and a lack of commitment to security were common problems) and by the men. 

What was going on? What had brought this to the surface and potentially jeopardised everything?

Doug Ellis. The icy lifer. Under 6 feet tall 230 pounds, a human wrecker ball. Of all the beefcake that passed before his eyes in the last decade, why was this man's presence obsessing him, stripping him of his dignity and controlling his sex as if he were a man possessed. 

Bantock thought he'd seen everything there was to see in macho masculinity after 10 years in the service and before that in London boxing clubs and gyms. His father's warning to the young boxer "There's always someone bigger and harder than you.", had rung in his head a thousand times since his boyhood and that nugget of wisdom had stood him in good stead. He'd been in some scraps. He'd attended scuffles and brawls on duty and out, he could handle himself. But here he lay, at war with his own feelings. This man Ellis was different and the effect that his potency held exploded in the instructor's mind and body was powerfully disturbing. 

When he admired men, he admired their jab, their left hook, their movement around the ring, their dedication to their training, their ability to overcome adversity, their courage, their physical stamina, their strength. Never once had he looked a man in the eye and thought of sex, not once had he touched himself in a sexual way and thought of another man. What had changed? He'd met Doug Ellis, face to face, that is all. So had this man some kind of power to turn men into homosexuals? Phooey! What kind of belief was that for someone who ridiculed all kinds of spiritual and religious "superstition" as he called it?

Yet undeniably, he wanted Ellis. He wanted to be with Ellis, beside him, inside him to become Doug Ellis, to lose what was Harry Bantock and walk in the flesh of this astonishing creature. Staring a hole in the ceiling, clenched fists at his side, his cock, unbidden, tenting the bedding, his body wracked once again in orgasm, so powerful he almost lost consciousness. His eyes filled with tears. Tears from the effort, failing to suppress this apparent need. Tears from the bog eyed muscle ripping explosion in his loins. Childish tears of fear and anguish. What the hell was happening to him?

***

It would not have comforted the troubled gym instructor to know that he was not alone. on the third landing in the lifer wing of the prison, just over the wall from the block of officer accommodation, a lone officer routinely peered in through the tiny spy hole in the door of 316. 

In the pool of moonlight from a high, slit window he saw the unmistakable sparkle of a pale viscous liquid snake out onto the floor in a great glob followed by another, a third, then a winding silvery thread which trailed behind the latter as it grounded and slid to a sticky stop. A shadow crossed the moon, a figure crouched, then knelt, bending it's massive frame and head towards the focus of Jenkins' attention, and a long tongue snaked out to lap at the warm semen. Leaving only the satin sheen of his saliva on the deck paint, the shadow receded and the silent play was over except for the startling images spinning in the mind of officer Jenkins. Breathing slightly more heavily than he would have expected Jenkins wondered if this was a matter for discipline. Should he report the incident? Nothing in his recent training or in his limited experience so far on the wing had prepared him for what he would see on his first night shift alone on the landing. In the quiet of the midnight landings it was impossible to open or close the metal spy hole unnoticed and he was all too aware that the occupants of 316 knew exactly what he had seen to its conclusion.

Below on "The 2's" a senior officer, Lawrence, sprawled in his chair in the landing office with his huge feet up on the desk, his cap down over his eyes and a conspicuous lump of palpitating manhood pressing at the fly of his serge uniform. In the privacy of his dream a powerful male figure paced the landing, naked, genitals swinging proudly ahead of him, head high, chest high and massively muscled, the glint of his pre-cum glistening at the lips of his throbbing cock a lustful leer on his closely bearded face a film of perspiration polishing the perfectly hairless, parading torso. The sleeping Lawrence gave a satisfied grunt as his vision turned to look into the landing office to give a lascivious wink to the sleeping figure of Lawrence which twitched, grunted again and woke with a start to find a very uncomfortable tangle of hard cock, cum and pubic hair in his lap, a crippling stiff neck and his feet and lower legs paralysed with pins and needles from having slept so awkwardly. Momentarily disoriented and shocked to have had a wet dream on duty, Lawrence tried to wrestle his stiff and awkward body back into the dignified form of a uniformed officer of the prison service and hoped that the stink of fresh cum was not too obvious when the time came for the shift change and he'd be obliged to be with colleagues. He was thankful for the disguise of black woollen fabric and the remains of a shift in which to dry before seeing another living soul. He had dreamed himself, perfected in body to the form of an ancient god, further augmented with massively proportioned and fully stimulated genitals, walking about his silent patrol stark naked and hungry for whatever challenge met his gaze. Perhaps it was the bolognese he'd had before the shift began.



Doug Ellis Ch. 03



The process of justice from arrest to conviction and sentencing can take years in some complex cases. Prisoners are moved, often on a daily basis from cell to cell, from police station to court, prison to court and sometimes to the relative freedom of bail. A busy and stressful time of 'hurry up and wait' with hearings, interviews with legal representatives and/or officers of the justice system and procedural postponements. Some prisoners face the threat of extradition overseas or into different state jurisdiction. During this period, prisoners may be locked up with different people every night. There is no choice in the matter. One of the key privileges lost with freedom of association. Where prison populations are small, and conditions carefully controlled to meet the human needs of prisoners, the possibility of single occupancy cells exists. This is a luxury that most societies are unable or unwilling to fund.

Ellis had only been on the lifer wing for a few minutes before the more outgoing prisoners had realised he was not a man given to casual conversation. The scavengers, the sharks, the barons and the just plain nosey will have what they want to know about a newly arrived prisoner within minutes. We could waste time with examples of these failures to scrutinise the man and discuss what didn't happen, or pass onto what actually did. Ellis was acquiring nicknames by turns from everyone, by those he had ignored or those he'd brusquely dismissed. Thanks to his protracted remand imprisonment, Ellis had been around in the system long enough to know that the less anyone knew about a person the less vulnerable they were to exploitation. All anyone got out of Doug was his name and number. Consequently, though the man was big, the myth was already bigger. 

Doug was accommodated in 317 with Goodall, a man less like himself they could hardly have found. Only twenty four, Goodall had been an arsonist and was now doing life principally at the insistence of insurance company lawyers who press for long sentences. Like many of the boys, his was not a first offence and a second conviction for setting a serious fire usually means life. He was one of the smaller men on the wing at only five feet seven. He'd never used a gym so had the body of a typical college drop out, though Phillip Goodall had never been a college boy. He was plain, mousey and had been profoundly deaf since birth. With his hearing apparatus he could hold a conversation but his speech was inflected with that special voice of someone who learned to speak not hearing himself. For this reason, Goodall usually chose to not speak if possible even when spoken to, and would elect to hear only when it was really necessary, however, his lip reading was startlingly good, lightening fast, effective over surprising distance and his interpretation of body language a similarly intensely focused survival tool. To Ellis, this combination of quiet internalisation could not be bettered. Goodall lay on his bunk and read much of the time, he plodded around the exercise cage in his turn. Their eyes met, at Ellis' insistence when they were first introduced, very briefly. Goodall, fearful, wishing to avoid the big man's gaze. However, in that momentary eye to eye contact the arsonist recognised far more than anyone else since Ellis' arrival. Most importantly, his fear was forgotten. A strange kind of common ground, the mutual unwillingness to communicate, but anyone expecting to learn something about the one man from the other would be disappointed. 

In the noisy queue for their evening meal, Ellis ahead, Goodall fixedly staring at the landscape of white cotton tee between Doug's shoulder blades, he was suddenly pushed from his place by Higson, a man who wore his violent past on his battered face, jumping into the line. Not a word said but Doug felt the motion right enough. Turning slowly, Ellis caught the eye of the flustered Goodall who knew instinctively from the look to move into the space beyond Doug, ahead one place in the queue. Ellis then looked at Higson, who's altered features wore a succession of conflicted expressions while Ellis displayed none, he then turned his back on the incident and on the bewildered Higson to jeers of complaint from behind about people pushing in. 

Pushing his food around the plastic tray back in the cell, Phillip looked up to see the big man looking at him. Goodall wanted to say something in the way of thanks but seemed to know it was not welcome. However, a discussion was initiated by Ellis, much to Goodall's surprise in more than one way, with well practiced gestures Phillip Goodall would learn that Doug Ellis, brought up by his Grandmother, who had been totally deaf from childhood, had the skills of sign language from that early relationship. This fact was not known to the prison authorities and had it been they might have paired the two off differently.

That night both the cellmates had a good feeling about their companion, both had shared information with just about the only other person on the wing that was likely to keep shut.

Higson however was to have a very disturbed night on the landing above. His uneasy sleep was filled with strange images of invasive searches, something he'd loathed and feared and, if he'd had the vocabulary to express it, regarded as a legalised sexual assault. Why? When it had nothing at all to do with sex? 

Maybe he was just not admitting to himself that what he hated and feared about the process was that the examiner had touched something he wanted touched again but did not dare to admit it. He'd taken care to avoid notice but he'd tried to find it himself in the shower, terrified that one of the others would notice his furtive gropings. Now his guilt and shame was haunting his dreams.

After a goodly interlude peppered with guttural expletives, expressing sordid pleasures relating to his newly discovered yet forbidden erogenous area, he finally awoke with a gasp when he'd been violated by a faceless prison officer wielding the detached leg of a wooden chair. The sticky damp patch under his body, familiar from his teenage years, must have been a coincidence. His erect member wouldn't go down and he was afraid to go back to sleep in case the tormenting nightmare returned. But his waking thoughts were obsessively of those images he'd dreamed. His arsehole burned and what he did not know was his prostate throbbed with excitement, begging to be massaged. With shocked realisation he sensed the uncanny silence in the cell, the familiar grunts, groans, snores and noisy breathing of Carson in the bunk above were missing, Higson knew as only a burglar would, that Carson was holding his breath and it became obvious he had been listening to Higson's torment but what had he heard? His orgasm? 

There was a cough from the upper bunk, a cough just enough to reintroduce much needed oxygen and to allow Carson to cum without a sigh or heavy breathing, the cough you make when you don't want your brother or room mate to know you just terminated your wank. His big hand, coarsely thatched with red hair was snugly wrapped around his thick cock, and moved almost imperceptibly over his spit slick purple glans to bring his thick wad up and out of his piss slit onto his beefy, callused fingers then silently to his auburn bearded lips for disposal. What would be said out there on the wing if it became known that big Red Carson, former hell's angel, who'd stabbed his wife and her hell's angel lover to death in front of his own children, had got off on the sound of his cell mate wet dreaming? What might have worried him slightly more had he been given to such concerns, was that image in his mind as he came, the fantasy that pushed him into full flowing loss of his manly seed was not of a female of the species but his imagining of his cell mate, Higson's hairy arsehole wrapped tightly around that very cock Higson's grunts of lust as Carson's meat poker vividly portrayed in his brain as it spewed his load first in and then on that pouting, oh so manly portal.

Carson was not a man given to harbouring anxieties for long and he soon drifted off to sleep, however, Higson was certain aware that the secrecy of his lurid sexual fantasy was in peril. He was instinctively certain that Carson's cough was intended to hide his own orgasm. Could that really just be a coincidence?

But as Carson had briefly concerned himself with the image of Higson's beconing, pouting arse, Higson wondered what it would be like to feel much much more than a prison security officer's finger looking for hidden contraband inside his shitter. How could he ever dare to find out? 

Unless the man concerned happened to be just as scared of being found out as Higson was himself? As Carson's snores began to ring around the concrete and steel of their cell once more, Higson racked his racing mind for a scheme to introduce the biker in the top bunk to his desperately hungry fuck hole.



Doug Ellis Ch. 04



In well funded, well organised prison systems, inmates are able to earn privileges by working in routine jobs such as cleaners, painters and other maintenance. In some institutions these can lead to vocational qualifications.

Work in a prison such as this sometimes brings a small income, a hierarchical system other than that decided by the threat of physical force and other privileges, not least of which is trust from other inmates and staff and something to pass the bulk of the day. 

Goodall had arrived on the wing a month before Ellis and had been working as a wing cleaner, a common place to start work. Inmates would fail and lose the job or progress quickly into work requiring levels of trust as the wing staff and security saw fit . Few would actually choose to work as a cleaner, even though they would be out of their cells earlier than the others and get to hear stuff. In prison, as everywhere else, knowledge is power and a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

Jobs come up which required the men to move into other areas of the prison, always a desirable perk, develop skills such as painting and decorating, carpentry and electrical work and among many others, hospital porters and the gym orderlies. These jobs were highly sought after and the staff could afford to use only reliable, pliable men. Even to be appointed as a wing cleaner with a minimal 'pocket money' wage in return for the work, a prisoner had to demonstrate his ability to follow instructions, his conformity and obedience, a huge barrier for some men. You didn't have to lick arse but a good word in the right place could move things forward.

In due course, about a month into his residency, Doug was approached by his landing Senior Officer and offered work as a cleaner and much to the unusually nervous SO's surprise Ellis accepted gratefully. A lot of the hard men and it was assumed that Doug was of that order, were too proud to work as cleaners. They supplemented their rations by 'protecting' weaker inmates in return for canned tuna, chocolate, tobacco, or other kinds of favour. Doug had already worked out that the clean way to supplement his meagre diet and make his weights sessions worthwhile was to have a wage, however small, and to buy the vitamin rich fruit and protein foods he lacked. There would be no access to sophisticated supplements and performance enhancers in prison though you could get absolutely anything if you were well enough connected. 

For years Ellis' workouts had been supported by a carefully implemented regime of natural foods. The freshest fruit and vegetables, meat and fresh fish, bought in the early morning market, still 'suited and booted' on his way home from a late shift on the door of a swanky nightclub. He had no room for regret, none for nostalgia or home-sickness just a small scale, developing plan and a rock solid focus. As it had been on the 'out' his training and the discipline of his body would be the core of his life. For this, he needed the good will of the gym staff, the wing staff and the trust of the security department, oh, and some decent fruit in the shop instead of a few wrinkly looking apples and bruised bananas. He was quick, quiet for a big man and reliable in his first job on the wing. He would see a few things, see a few people he'd missed before when they were escorted off the wing early to work. They'd nod in acknowledgement of the presence of the new cleaner, impossible to miss. Respectful, a bit wary of him and occasionally hint of admiration showing when they see what deltoids, detailed triceps dusted with white blonde hair and those corded upper pecs moving under his tee in time with the mop.

He was always finished in plenty of time when Mr. Bantock arrived with the gym orderlies to take him and the other chosen inmates to their, as Doug saw it, all too brief session on free weights.

Too eager to notice, Doug was with the party and gone, but his eagle eyed cell mate had seen the way that Bantock avoided eye contact with Ellis, that his usually authoritative, assertive manner and dominant body language; high chest; wide, confident stance, changed subtly when the Instructor was greeted by that particular prisoner. Which of his primitive instincts caused that untypical response? Surely not fear? There was nothing overtly threatening about Doug Ellis and there were men on this wing much more challenging, much bigger and with big reputations for unpredictable violence. The silent wheels of Goodall's mind raced.

No gesture was without interpretation in this community, no expression went unnoticed in this environment and the "deaf boy", as he was too often known, apparently staring after his departing cell mate, lost in thought, caused other eyes to twinkle and other thought processes to germinate. Bored, boyish minds make mischief within the interminable beige of the wing walls. Happily, Goodall was sheltered by the task of cleaning the Wing superintendent's office and general 'exercise' was called only seconds later. Like distracting a puppy with a different toy, the threat evaporated and what might have turned into spiteful fun making was temporarily forgotten in the press to get a precious lungful of the open air.

As he dusted the orderly space, and not a speck had dared to land since his work of the previous day, Goodall dismissed a series of explanations for the Gym boss' fascinating reaction without any real hope of getting near the truth. 

The 'fear' he had unwittingly seen in Bantock was actually a complex cocktail of incomprehension, apprehension, yes, fear of a kind and most disturbingly of all for the instructor, a physical attraction. The 'fear was fear of himself , what had changed in him and what he might do in response if he could not come to terms with his distracted state. 

Unable to see through this fog of complex emotions. Goodall packed away his imperfect, incomplete investigation. Why, he thought, was this enigmatic, when his view of Doug Ellis himself was simple enough. There would be plenty of time to work it out. One resource they all needed to use up in constructive activity.

Once again that night, loins pulsing and boiling over, as unbidden images of Ellis flickered across Bantock's half waking, half dreaming. The loaded bar across those chiseled 'traps' and rear deltoids, the massive, deeply cleft, tightly controlled back muscles through perspiration and stretched white T shirt, the power of the flexing gluteus in prison-issue navy shorts. Steely hamstrings, quads and calves as the years of expert posture development lowered into a practiced, perfectly paced squat, directly, at least in this imagination, over the tortured groin of the perspiring, ejaculating P.E.instructor. The huge, slow exhalation as the tremendous potential in tense muscle fibre, sinew, bone and gristle tantalised and then raised that great arse back to a confident standing position for the twelfth time, leaving the rock hard erection twitching in time to the spasms racking Bantock's body. So real, so close, he could almost reach out and touch...Inscribed on his visual memory forever, impressions of the magnificent animal that was Doug Ellis, repeating in Bantock's retina. Every blood vessel in his eyeballs straining to focus on the imagined details of physiology his newly born lust enjoyed. He wanted Doug Ellis' body to somehow open up to receive his own yet had not ever conceived of copulating with another man, Fucking another man? Where had that concept come from? Of all the men who might have triggered an inclination, why this unattainable near-superman. Perhaps it was his silent hyper masculinity, maybe it was because he was more than just manhood.

Bantock's fear that his secret was written on his face was justified but as yet the script was so cryptic only 'subtle difference' could be read. In the climate of self conscious, ego driven heterosexual male paranoia, honed by starvation of sexual or just reassuring bodily contact, that was enough to make people notice under the microscopic examination of the wing and to question his authority. Bantock knew above all that authority was everything and indiscipline meant failure and a risk to prison safety and security, as he saw it, total humiliation. As it was, he knew it was a threat to his work, his whole life.

Just a few hundred meters away from the dreaming, tormented officer, Goodall, awake in his own bunk in the lifer unit. He had, with near miraculous accuracy, extrapolated such deductions from his brief, minute observations of body language when he saw how the Gym crew convened? He couldn't possibly know how that manifest in the erotic imaginings of the P.E. Instructor but he knew alright that it was lust. The first member of staff he'd seen that reaction in. Not the first on the faces of fellow inmates to the Ellis phenomenon though. Goodall had seen that there were plenty of men around here that admired Ellis in ways that would be unacceptable if another man new of it. The ever cautious observer kept it to himself.

For now, Goodall had no reason to use his assumptions in any way. The gentle purr of his cell-mate's contented rest accompanied these thoughts. He felt safe in Ellis' company, marvelled at his quiet strength and enjoyed the reactions the man provoked in others. 

Cutting across his thoughts, Goodall heard the spy-hole cover in the door open. Moonlight cast across the sleeping form in Ellis' bunk falling on his bristled head, cheek, and the square toes sticking out from under his blanket. Unusual, thought Goodall, for an officer to look in where there was not a bed watch order. Was he bored or could Dursley have fallen under the same spell as Bantock. For sure, the man was not looking in on Goodall, the little deaf guy in the corner that nobody noticed much and who never spoke. Why was Dursley even on duty? It was common knowledge the man was a courier and favours could be bought from officer Dursley. He was widely disliked and distrusted by colleagues including his boss and among others P.E.S.O Harry Bantock. Officers gossiped about the man, his dark glasses, his black Mercedes with tinted windows, a pimp or drug dealer or more likely both on the outside. He was built and cut, his ripped flesh beyond natural. An obsessive in the gym. He liked the place to himself and that suited everyone else. It was assumed that someone in the security department was as crooked as Dursley. How else could he operate? Saturday night of all nights Dursley was on the wing. Another puzzle.

Enough mystery for one day, Goodall needed to sleep. Much like Ellis, Goodall had a blindspot in his mind where affection and warmth used to reside, where past friendships and love were stowed in deep freeze but he was aware that the big guy and his occasional signing warmed him and he knew from his cold grey eyes that their brief communications were good for Ellis too. 

Dursley closed the spy-hole but stood without moving away, his dark, intense eyes only inches from the cold steel door. Transfixed by some thought. Goodall didn't turn over until he's heard the officer slowly walk away down the landing. He opened no other spy-holes but went straight down to the landing office and sat down to write an official report to the head of security, another career sadist.



Doug Ellis Ch. 05



As communications technologies proliferate and diversify, a new generation of security difficulties are presented to prison systems and for all kinds of reasons satellite technologies, telephony, access to data control systems, the internet, digital copiers and even photography are tightly controlled in prisons. Walkie talkies might seem like the tools of a bygone age but a mobile phone lost on a wing would be like a loose canon so most prisons ban even basic mobiles from secure spaces within the complex. Even so, as with the presence of drug dealing in secure institutions, there is always a way in for the determined smuggler. In prison every member of staff is responsible for security or its failure.

Although security searches of all incoming staff were part of the requirement of the basic security system. It was common knowledge that there simply was not the funding for such a level of staffing which could make it effective. The priority for the security department was containment, so the trafficking of unsanctioned favours into and out of the prison was tolerated or at least overlooked. This included class A drugs, lesser narcotics and a whole host of other things, including, almost unbelievably, prostitutes.

Perhaps it was the defiant arrogance of his black AMG Mercedes on a regular officer's pay, perhaps the thin, slightly crooked line of the fiercely shaven lips, perhaps the unassailable swagger of his overconfident walk, the large kit bag he always brought in, or the 'roid driven way he always slammed down the big dumbbells with which he punished his upper body but Bantock really did not like Lee Dursley. 

So the day that Dursley was seen in the changing room at the gym block with his phone by an auxiliary member of staff, Bantock was quietly informed and he instinctively knew this was not just an honest mistake and the incident brought a welcome focus on the needs of the job and not on his own problems

Robert Kirkland, a colleague from basic training more than a decade before and now a security senior, picked up Bantock's call with his usual buddy manner but fell quickly into his official seriousness immediately the situation was described. No indication had been given to Dursley that he'd been seen with a mobile phone inside the jail so Kirkland was free to proceed to investigate the man without alerting his quarry. Security is a paranoid business and Bob Kirkland had often seen irrational anxiety lead to wasted time and effort while really dangerous situations could arise under the noses of the same officers and go uninvestigated. Bob had a similar distrust of Dursley to that felt by Harry Bantock, lots of the staff were phased by him and the man was moody. Long before the corridors and gates of prison wings were wired for CCTV, security had ways of "seeing" what staff and inmates alike were up to.

Kirkland wrote nothing down and said nothing to his boss. All kinds of things could happen to an officer who challenged his superiors' authority or integrity. Kirkland had a mortgage and 2 kids in primary school, he already knew a lot about illegal activities conducted with the knowledge of his immediate superior and Bantock was not the only officer in a key position who resented such flagrant corruption and vice. He also knew that both his boss and the Governor were in the same Freemason's lodge. The walls of the prison were permeable only to permitted staff, vetted volunteers, visitors and by legally and illegally transmitted goods and services. That left a lot of scope. Anyone who Kirkland suspected could act both internally and externally against him and he knew it. He might hit a few rats but the rest could overrun his life very easily. This was not a time for hasty actions.

Meanwhile, Doug lay in his bunk and meditated on the sinews of his lower back his butt and the outside edges of his thighs, all of which tingled and buzzed with a satisfying warmth brought on by the final super set of squats and burns in yesterday's workout. 

Afternoon lockdown and time for private thoughts and this was the way the internalised Doug Ellis liked to pass his hours. Letting the body and the conscious mind sink into total relaxation and allow visualisation to patrol every fibre of his body under a steely discipline. By this self examination his thoughts could reach any part, stimulate or suppress, focus on fibres or fluids and monitor repairs. He wasn't worshipping his own body, merely maintaining it in incredibly fine, detail. There was a strange power in this process which refreshed him. He was also aware of the sexual power his body possessed but that knowledge lay locked in the vault of his mind, he neither exploited it nor showed any interest in the effect his sexual aura had on others. Perhaps because he had no control over how or whom it effected, that was their business, wasn't it? No prison wing could be so closely guarded as Doug Elis' sexual feelings.But sexuality is a projection and however private,it can and will influence other people.

By contrast, next door, Higson took a long loud piss into the enamel steel slop pail. The sunlight from the high window caught the curve of his bare arse as he stood confidently, shaking the last drops from his cock, he bent to pull up his shorts and a loud snort came from Carson lying in the lower bunk. 

"Fuck!" blurted Carson "Fuck! Gotta fuck!- I'm dying, Man." 

Higson spun round to see the red bearded monster fisting a super fat 8" cock, so hard you could knock nails in with it. Higson was overcome by his own fantasies and frustrations and without the slightest desire to suck it or engage in any kind of foreplay with another man he bent over and pulled his arse cheeks as wide as he could exposing the hairy ring that Carson had dreamed of fucking. He couldn't make his expectations any more plain than that. For both of these uncultured, uneducated men, brutal desire had just driven right off the road.

To his surprise, the rumble of lust echoing in Carson's cavernous, furry chest, faded to a whimper as his goal came into view. Instead of Higson being greeted with battering ram at his longing sphincter, the giant red-head sprang surprisingly lithe from the lower bunk, spun on his knees and crashed his bearded face into the cleft between Higson's arse cheeks, snuffling porcine grunts, "Mnnh, Hnnnmh, Ncunt, cunt, mcunt, Hmn!" his tongue taking away Higson's virginity and his breath in the same instant. 

Eyes rolling, Higson's hand slapped into the wall for support and his legs quivered and buckled with this totally new experience as Carson nibbled and gobbled and bit and prodded. "Mnnh, Hnnnmh, Ncunt, cunt, mcunt, Hmn!" was all that Carson could manage as he feasted on Higson's hairy hole, his fat tongue winding up into Higson's body pushing him into the wall and into a wracking orgasm that blasted cum all over the battleship grey paintwork. Carson grew more excited yet as Higson's ring clamped down on his probing tongue, he reached between Higson's shaky legs and deftly scooping up the slick goo, slapped it onto his tumescent cock head, then with a reluctant grunt and a smack of his lips, he rose, placed a hand on Higson's shoulder, his blazing hot, fat glans at Higs' wet hole and was amazed at the smooth, slippery way his engorged cock head plopped through the outer ring with a breathless whimper from its owner. The heat travelled up through Carson's cock as Higs' arse hole enveloped his great, thickly veined rod. It was all too much for the sex starved giant and his load exploded in that warm wet gateway as a howl, as if a man had been beaten, signalled Higson's reception of Carson's gift and the yell of a triumphant victor trumpeted from Carson.

The sounds were mistaken by some as the termination of an argument and officers playing poker below agreed they could go and clean up the wreckage and the blood and / or bodies later.

Higson crumpled under Carson's body weight and lay awkwardly, his crooked boxer's nose pressed into the wall, Carson's hard prick up his arse, cum in his hair, cum dripping out of his hole, cum still dribbling from his own cock. 

"Fucking bitch!" Snorted Carson as he twisted himself round so he could force his cock home. "Cunt, cunt...cunt!" as he prodded experimentally at Higson's limp body on the floor, pausing between each obscenity until the next thrust of his hips. His eyes were wide and as if gone mad, so disbelieving was this massively built ogre, up to his grizzled plums in a bloke almost as strong as himself, poking his arse filled with the jizz from both of them and it was the hottest, tightest fuck he'd ever had. He bent forward and bit into the roll of muscled, bristly skin at the base of Higson's tightly cropped skull for oral stimulation, brought his corded, hairy arms under the ribcage of his prone cellmate as he tried to lift himself and in a crushing bear hug began to pound his cock into the newly deflowered Higson. Still breathless and almost passing out under the weight and power of Higson's enormous form, Higson bleated and whimpered as his imagination pictured the massive red penis, like a punching fist, driving in and out of his body, the feeling of overwhelming, of total surrender, of suffocation under a mountain of flesh, muscle and matted sweaty red body hair.

Suddenly Carson pulled out his dick with loud plop, flipped the gasping Higson over onto his back, like a lifeless, dummy, naked legs slapping into the floor and straddling the bewildered man's chest rammed his dripping, quivering, obscenely inflated cock right down the prone Higson's virgin throat, pumping his second load into the bucking suffocating body below his balls. With a laugh and a final cry of "Cunt!" , he finally slid his flesh hose from its excruciating hole and the coughing, gasping body beneath him in panic, desperately struggled for oxygen. Cum and saliva added to the river of salty tears caused by his choking, Higson's scarred face was purple with coughing and the fight for breath but far from trying to throw the huge, half naked man off in a hail of curses once he'd got his breath, he lapped at the underside of Carson's big sausage dick as it lay across his nose and forehead, teasing the drips of their combined cum from the pubic hair around Carson's large testicles and delightedly, experimentally feeling them move and glide in their sack as they lay on his cleft and stubbled chin, abrading them playfully with the sharp bristles, a free hand stroking his engorged, cock into a second, ball busting orgasm which shot right up over the parting in the mighty river of red hair that flowed across Carson's massive shoulders and down his bare back.

"Filthy cunt!" was all that Carson could summon up with an evil smile that suggested there would be more of this kind of fucking and pretty soon. He tensed his cock muscles to twitch his cock and make it bounce on his playmate's craggy face.

There is no privacy in a prison wing, there had been no care taken in 315 to disguise in any way what was going on. In fact, had the cell door swung open and the officers below decided to investigate and crowded round the cell doorway or the whole fucking wing population come round to ogle the proceedings, neither Higson nor Carson would have stopped, so oblivious were they to their surroundings. The pair of them just lay there on the floor in a heap, they stank of sweat and cum and they chuckled about what had happened with Carson's two thickest fingers occasionally frigging Higson's talented arse hole and Higson lapping a last dewy drip from Carson's seeping meat.



Doug Ellis Ch. 06



This chapter eroticises non-consensual sex in a voyeuristic sense, it does not condone or glorify it. It takes some of the archetypes of gay domination or S&M fantasy, e.g. positions of power, physical prowess, isolation, bondage to illustrate the motives driving such an assault. I have endeavoured to show how, in real life people can and do save themselves while undergoing terrible ordeals.

*****

As a product of the criminal justice system the prison service has grown up with rankings and uniforms similar to those in police and even military services but also allied in some ways to other forms of custody and care such as secure hospitals and other kinds of military institutions.

Fewer restrictions are imposed on becoming a prison officer, fewer demands are made in the screening process and sometimes those who are attracted to the military or to policing end up as prison staff. Sometimes these people are fond of exerting their authority over others but don't have the charisma to make that work without an institution and a uniform, bars, gates and if necessary weapons. Sometimes it is just about power. 

Would-be police officers who don't make the grade selection or fail in training, big fellas with flat feet, little fellas with a power complex, people who just needed a decent salary and accommodation but not high flyers, not as a rule. Some will maximise their potential, some will thrive but most will take the salary, then having survived, take the pension. Though there are many caring and giving individuals working in the system because they believe in a just custody system and the possibility of rehabilitation. The best of these get exhausted sometimes and cannot give of their best. Mistakes get made. We can assume they are the good guys and we can overlook the few who are not, those who sneer at the lives of the people they have in their charge and who see an opportunity. Lee Dursley, for example.

The inmates, contrary to expectations, are often achievers, super bright individuals who made a big mistake, predators perhaps. In the system these mix in with lowlifes, carrion feeders who would never make the cut and who'd rob or destroy thoughtlessly just to get through, alongside all those who, through intoxication of one kind or another, set their own and possibly other lives into a downward spiral and eventually fall foul of the law.

The increasing cost of keeping more and more people secure in long term institutions is a constant conundrum for any society. The resentments of some taxpayers at the cost of humane conditions for prisoners leave alone provision of systems of rehabilitation are a thorn in the side of many a government under economic pressure.

Overcrowding. Underfunded re-education and probation systems. Staffing shortages must compete against demands for more and longer custodial sentences for criminals. Particularly those jails in the struggling, post-industrial cities where jobs are scarce, drugs and violence are the rule inside and out of prison and prospects for improvement are poor.

The boundaries between conditions inside prisons and outside can become blurred when people in society at large feel trapped and rendered powerless by their circumstances and some of those held in custody are able to manipulate criminal organisations outside and vice versa. So the world of organised crime can be as influential within the walls of the prison and in it's organisational structures and capable of influencing people, even civil servants and politicians beyond it. There is always someone on the make.

So if you're the good guy and Bob Kirkland thought of himself as the good guy, you sometimes need a lucky break to make any safe headway. He had no idea what his wish should be. As usual, in his position, the best policy was to follow the rule book, keep your eyes and ears open but with caution. Being seen to see and hear only what he should, while trying to see and hear what he shouldn't.

When the alarm was sounded and the prison went into emergency lockdown, security officers would get to the emergency first, assess the situation and control it as quickly as possible. They worked with staff, universally, to ensure that the security aspect, for which they were all responsible, was uppermost in people's minds. However, theirs was not a happy department, chiefly because their boss was disinterested in them as a team and with their function. 

Frank Singleton. Gone to the bad some said. Too many interests other than his work some said. Bent on minding his own business, in the worst sense, when it was his job to know everyone else' business. He was good at manipulating people and had the Governor eating out of his hand but he'd been creaming off what he could in external meetings, conferences and other time off, perks in general and his coterie of favourites around the prison, notably his association with Lee Dursley, who would be in and out of Singleton's office several times each week and could be up there for an hour at a throw. 

This fact alone called into question the nature of their business. Dursley was resented on the wing for the cover that was required while he was in conference with the security chief and because it was assumed that everything said and done on the wing was reported directly. Singleton's credibility in the eyes of his sub-ordinates was compromised for his questionable choice of trusted staff members, and it was assumed, informants.

If the doubters had only known that the situation was altogether simpler in nature. Together, Singleton and Dursley managed the supply of just about anything impermissible coming into the prison and being traded within it. Of course, Dursley was the over confident and none too subtle courier. He was also in a position to relay messages from influential people both sides of the security perimeter. 

In his turn, Singleton dealt with the internal politics and and key people in the external supply chain. He was and always had been a brute. Strong body, thick neck, he liked to be physically intimidating but more, he was extremely skilled at menacing people quietly. He and the steroid toting body builder made an effective team.

Singleton was 55 years old, had 25 years in the prison service, following 14 in the army. His first security post had been in a youth custody institution where he had previously been a judo instructor, part of the training program offered to newly recruited staff. It was there that a certain kid, who reminded him of himself in so many ways, and who showed great promise and great strength for his age, caught his attention. How he had recognised that kid, now fully grown, in a different institution all those years later, he could not fathom but he'd picked Ellis out among the P.E. group at the gate of the lifer wing as they departed towards the gym building as if it were yesterday. Something sprung into his mind like a bolt.

Dursley was instructed to make observations and find a means to get Ellis to an interview in Singleton's office as soon as could be managed. In due course, Dursley had trumped up something sufficiently justifiable and as no further charges were involved, the escort would leave Ellis without legal advice in the company of security chief, Singleton and one officer (Dursley of course) at the door of the octagonal office.

When Ellis was called, during afternoon lockdown, word went around the wing very quickly. Rumour was rife about the purpose of the interview and in certain quarters it was immediately assumed that Ellis was an informant. Dangerous, even for a man who commanded as much respect as Ellis unwittingly had. The truth was way outside their expectations.

Singleton had wisely left the escort of the prisoner to others and although Dursley was one of four officers taking Ellis, tightly handcuffed, from the lifer unit to security, his was not the responsibility. Until reaching Singleton's office other uniformed staff took charge. There, as planned, the lightly clad figure of the massive prisoner was left with the security supremo and one designated member of the escort, of course, Lee Dursley.

Doug stood square shouldered ahead of the great, immovable desk which had indeed had the room remodelled around it as it could not be removed down the winding stairs.

Singleton sat behind it quite relaxed. Powerful in every sense. Ellis was not easily intimidated but once the heavy steel door closed behind him an uneasy feeling came over him, reaching beyond the curiosity as to why he'd been summoned. He was unprepared for the carefully planned situation that unfolded. A man of few words as we have seen, so made no demand of the authority about why he had been sent for although he was curious to know. The man seated before him was somehow familiar but he couldn't think from where. That matter was soon to be clarified.

Dursley swiftly stepped close behind Ellis and clipped a carabiner across the cuffs restraining his big hands then pulled on a rope, hoisting Ellis' arms back and up, threatening to dislocate them both at the shoulder. As he did so, fastening it somewhere behind the big man. 

So unused was he to calling for help or in distress that his mouth was gagged before he could offer any. such expression. Again, when the hobble was applied to his ankles the discomfort in his arms restricting his movement and balance preventing him from offering any resistance. Then, once his feet were restrained, the tension on the rope was released and Dursley threw the loose end across the desk to his master who pulled gently towards him the now toppling tower of Doug Ellis, whose massive chest and stubbled chin landed gracelessly, like a great aircraft touching down with no undercarriage on the green leather top. 

Looking up now at his tormentor, a spark of recognition twinkled in his newly resentful eyes, just as Singleton began to introduce himself and fill in the gap in Ellis' memory. What Singleton did not make clear was his intentions although he had certainly introduced these in a manner which led Ellis to think his rights were being flagrantly abused.

At a nod from Singleton, the helpless lower body of Doug Ellis was exposed. Dursley, pulled the loose, grey, prison issue joggers down as far as the hobbles which restrained Ellis' feet and a cold realisation touched the big power lifter. Although the two other men in the room were still fully clothed, he was about to be sexually abused. He could make no objection or cry out, so, in an instant, as his grey/green, prison issue boxers were also pulled down he withdrew his conscious thoughts inwards as he would at the same time each day. He totally shut down his external self and imposed a state of relaxation just as if he were in his bunk on the lifer unit which would daily become, in his imagination, a much loved country walk to a place almost sacred from his childhood. From there he could see, completely detached from his body, as Singleton tied off the rope securing Doug to the desk and rose from his chair pushing it back as he did so. He smiled and playfully patted Doug's head like a faithful dog but the smile turned to a sneer as he unfastened his belt and moved to where he could strop Ellis' arse.

Dursley pulled Ellis' T up over his head revealing the sinuous acres of his massively muscled back, sprinkled with white blond down, surprised and somewhat disappointed that there was no recoil from the strokes of Singletons savage belt.

Then it came. Singleton, who had removed his shirt and tie to avoid sweat stains upon them, released his pent up genitals, admired himself briefly as his large testicles swung free and then spat on the great, purple globed head of his erection, then pointed it at the downy porthole held open by Dursley. 

Not a squeak escaped the gag, not a moan or a groan or objection of any kind left the restraint of Ellis' mouth and nose as 8 inches of extraordinarily fat fuck tool was brutally rammed in one hit into Doug's arse. Singleton assumed with some cynicism that this was no virgin hole. By coincidence he was right but no whore would have withstood this onslaught without complaint. The beast was channeling Frank Singleton and he fucked Doug Ellis with a cruelty and venom that brought his orgasm to a slavering, panting climax in somewhat merciful haste. He returned to his accustomed place and slapped Doug's face with his slimy cock. 

Dursley, who had meticulously removed every inch of clothing and set them neatly on a chair nearby, stood tanned and rippling, posing his sinuous muscularity before Ellis, he teased the prone lifer with an absurdly long, enormously thick, black dildo and his own erect cock which was furnished with a very large Prince Albert piercing and which, as he showed Doug's unblinking face, was tattooed with the word "Ripper" in gothic script on the underside. His attention to Doug's arse was more prolonged, making a play of pressing more and more of the huge dildo into the Blond giant's body until the whole massive rubber dong was inserted, then, rotating it so that the rubber ball sack turned upward so that he could cram his pierced hard-on in below it and fucked Doug with this gigantic excess of cock in the slippery mess of his master's cum.

To his utter astonishment, rippling energy pulsed through his member as it luxuriated in the warmth of this great body, slow then fast then slow pulling and pulling and milking his cock, pulling on and teasing the ring, pulling it deeper harder and harder. Dursley gasped, eyes wide and blew his load in seconds having intended to give the man an extended agony of his lust. So astonished was he and so out of control his body convulsed repeatedly with an orgasm that threatened to tear his whole, massive frame to shreds. Then it was over, leaving him feeling as though something in his insides had been pulled out. Incredible.

The leering head of security, empowered by the site of his sidekick in such throws of orgasm, but scoffing at the way he had failed to restrain his cum, returned to Doug's defenceless hole, waved the disorientated Dursley aside, proudly hefting his meat mallet in his hand, with some considerable additional pressure required, stuffed his throbbing cock in alongside the huge dildo still lodged improbably in Ellis' gaping arse, stretching the tortured tissue of his unaccustomed anus still wider. Singleton almost immediately felt the insistent stroking and rippling of tiny waves increasing and decreasing in speed and intensity and drawing his fat eight inches in deeper, pulling harder and harder on the great head with an insane pressure, cramming his body against Doug's and squeezing the arrogant officer's heavy balls against the profiled edge of the oak desk before his control and participation in this process seemed to be snatched from him and what felt like his internal organs blasting out through the head of his tumescent cock. He lay down, panting, against the impossibly broad back of Doug Ellis, his body quivering, saliva gushing from his slack mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head as if he were losing consciousness.

The two officers slowly regained their senses, looked uneasily in blank disbelief at each other in a half daze. Things had not proceeded quite as they had expected. They also realised there was much to do. 

Firstly, they focussed on dressing, regaining their composure and in a purely business-like way, as one uniformed thug to another, carefully inspecting each other for signs of struggle or dishevelment.

Dursley quickly cleaned up the goo with wet wipes and swept everything including the dildo into a black, plastic sack. He also carefully replaced Ellis' clothes, making sure any seepage was distastefully but carefully wiped away before doing so. Ellis himself appeared to be unconscious but breathing softly so Dursley removed the gag and that too went into the sack. His weight taken by the desk, Ellis was also released from the hobbles but neither officer could rouse the apparently senseless figure.

Singleton had failed. Although he was robbed of the opportunity to break Doug Ellis, to hear the great man whimpering like a beaten dog, to see tears of frustration, anger, hatred and humiliation leaking from his eyes, Singleton had assumed from his experience of prisoners, that Ellis would go back unsteadily to his cell, make excuses for the marks on his wrists and ankles and because of the intense stigma, particularly in prisons attached to men getting fucked, that he would never breathe a word about the vile indignity he had suffered.

Influential as he was, Singleton could not have explained a corpse in his office following the "Interview" , nor would his reason stand up under cross examination for the calling of this prisoner to an interrogation in the first place.

A medic was hastily sent for and eventually two very strong male nurses, used to dealing with some really big and angry men in pain, managed somehow to manoeuvre the semi conscious Ellis down the tight staircase to ground level and over to the prison hospital, where he spent the following 2 nights, face down.



Doug Ellis Ch. 07



Moments of tenderness are few inside a male prison institution. That is not because Jails have an insufficiency of love, compassion, companionship and many other things we take for granted when we are cared for. It is a gross oversimplification of a massively complex psychological maze, more because there is so much need, that care must be shared among so many in dire need, that those working or living in the environment who do care, and many do, would be sucked dry by the great "Compassion Sponge". Many crack under that burden anyway; staff and inmates. Most develop some sort of safety valve in order to limit the effect of the grief around generated by so many shattered lives. Most of the inmates fucked up their own lives somehow but what is left still has needs that go beyond shelter, food and water.

Word got back to the lifer unit, via the hospital cleaners that Ellis was admitted in a semi conscious state following his "Interview" in security. This was enough to lay suspicions about Ellis' relationship with the security department but curiosity spawned rumour like wildfire as tongues wagged and hasty conclusions were jumped to. No-one got near to guessing the truth and no-one was going to get to hear it from the perpetrators.

Phillip Goodall, by now used to the shelter afforded by such a powerful cellmate grew anxious when Ellis did not return to the wing. On one level he was concerned for Ellis' well being when he learned that what had started out as an interview in security ended in hospital. The deep truth had not emerged, just the drama on the surface. Goodall was a long term survivor in institutions and instinctively, selfishly, he feared what might happen to him if Doug didn't come back and..." what would the new man to share his cell be like?" 

Meanwhile, in one of those rare moments of tenderness, Ellis was carefully and sensitively examined in the hospital that night, the external tissue trauma recorded and a report made. Mysterious injuries and even deaths occur inside secure institutions with alarming frequency and staff at all levels are expected to give evidence on what occurred but also to close ranks to protect the reputation of the "Service" (including the criminal actions of individuals) as well as the institution. The nature of such an incidence of obvious brutality requires that some evidence was recorded, if someone started hurling allegations, plausibility and concrete proof was the best defense. However, this document was not placed with others detailing the date and time of Ellis' admission. In fact, nobody but the maker of the report and Ellis, who still appeared to be unconscious at the time of its making, would know that such an examination had taken place. After 36 hours, when Ellis returned to the lifer unit and the simple record of his admission mysteriously disappeared, Singleton could be satisfied that nobody would be able to demonstrate what had happened if questions were asked. Though it would not incriminate Singleton nor Dursley, at least the hospital could be assured that if and when the shit hit the fan, they would not be in the firing line. What is more, the needs of a damaged human being were met with skill and compassion directly, even if one potential pathway to justice was well disguised.

Doug Ellis would not have expected to draw on the good will of hospital staff as witnesses even if he had intended to press charges. This had been, by no means, the most serious physical abuse he had suffered, though it ranked high in the rating of sexual abuse meted out to him. Thanks mainly to his extraordinary control of the situation, his injuries were superficial and nobody understood anger management better. He was serving a full life term for a premeditated act of revenge and his life could be made so much worse by a program of protest, even through proper channels, which may or may not eventually lead to judicial redress. Getting even had got him 'life'. So, along with everything else, he filed it away. 

The ego of Frank Singleton was far too great to be much troubled by concerns about overstepping the mark with Ellis and as usual Dursley was off somewhere, admiring his ripped muscularity in any passing reflection, be it shop window or the glossy paintwork of a car he admired almost as much. Arrogant and vain, the pair of them but Dursley wasn't watching who was watching him and was too thick skinned, too pumped full of testosterone to realise he was expendable, even vulnerable. He'd grown used to the 'shock and awe' effect his body had on women and men alike and thanks to Singleton's little training sessions, he was always hungry for the high which Singleton himself derived from totally dominating physically powerful people.

Men in the prison, resented Dursley but occasionally there would be one who risked the fuming, violent, masculine aura of the man for a chance to improve their lot. Dursley would pimp these men around the landings at night. If they wanted his body, they would often settle for satisfying someone else for a small reward. Those who wouldn't do sexual favours often carried the little deliveries he wanted done of contraband he'd bring in from contacts arranged by Singleton on the outside. As a regular officer, with little seniority and considerable distrust, he could not just roam the prison and needed 'trustees' collaboration to get his smuggled items to their destinations. However, there was one inmate, eyeing up Dursley on a regular basis, had used the privilege of his daily duties to see every inch of that extraordinary sculpted, tanned and tattooed body over and over again, as the man tortured his sinews in the prison gym and then as he luxuriated under the shower afterwards. 

Alun Dent, one of the gym orderlies, carefully made sure nobody else noticed his minute examinations, as with great effort he restrained his salivating, the pumping of his blood and intense pressure in his temples. Dent himself was a fanatical addict to exercise, his small frame was tightly packed with hard powerful muscle and for his size he was immensely strong. He trained for strength, not for beauty, he used no enhancement, his muscle grew tightly packed and powerful just from working again and again with the weights. The feeling was so strong in him when the effort came close to tearing his muscle fibre and when, in recovery they once again made him aware of his physique, that he understood his addiction completely. He didn't mind a bit when Dursley left the biggest dumbbells all round the place, Dent liked a tidy tight and compact gym that reflected him personally. Several times per week Dent was left in the gym after the prisoners were taken back to their cells, locked down with the weights he would deep clean and make the tatty old tiles of the shower their best as if it were part of him. Then, on a regular basis he would be alone with the phenomenon that was Lee Dursley as the swaggering bully arrived for his workout. 

Around the institution, Dent was nicknamed "wolf man" or "little wolf" , as the extraordinary pelt of dark hair that ran unkempt down his back and across his shoulders and frothed excessively from under his prison issue white tee shirt contrasted starkly with his pale skin. It got him noticed and was a badge of masculinity that his small stature denied him and it disguised like a camouflage net, the artillery of his compact musculature. In another way, 5 feet 4 inches and hung, Dent is unusual, but really hung. 

Dent's task, to conceal his sexual excitement at the sight of Dursley's "bent over fly" his "squats", his "bench rowing", his 'washing that muscle arse of his in the shower,' was made all the more taxing by the possession of such a massively thick and long uncut dong which could reach the furry cleft in his chest at full erection. He was a genuinely priapic, God of a man .

Dursley was happy enough to soak his own, wholly adequate knob in the guts of another man in order to demonstrate his superiority in every way, it gave him a frisson he couldn't generate inside a woman's body, however, he was not inclined to admire the male sex and most certainly would not take pleasure to receive 11 inches of rock hard, pulsating man flesh passionately shoved up his own arse and pumped like a demolition hammer in the interests of someone else's pleasure. So, as there was no way Dent was going to oblige Dursley's sadism without the chance to stuff his raging monster cock into the tender puckered hole of the nasty officer, Alun Dent had to content himself with private fantasy. However, these obsessions have a way of eating at you, don't they? Love would find a way, a peculiar, unrequited love, in peculiar circumstances, would have to find a peculiar way. 

Dent had only 18 months until parole and he had big plans for a new life as a personal trainer. Mr. Bantock had seen to it that all the certification available had been studied for and there were few people around better qualified or better experienced than he. From anatomy to nutrition, from calisthenics to power lifting, Dent was primed with the coaching skills. So however he longed to taste Lee Dursley's tanned and tattooed man meat and to stretch his uptight, self important arshole good and wide around his mamouth prick, Dent wouldn't risk a potential future for five minutes of fucking. Whereas Dursley was too impetuous and gave not the slightest thought to such a risk in a passing sexual encounter. 

He'd rubbed the soap enthusiastically into his genitals at the thought of his 'breaking in' of the massively muscular Doug Ellis but in his ego he had already forgotten the disempowerment implied in the manner of his orgasm, the way it seemed snatched away from him, electrifying though it had been.

Mr. Bantock's return to the building, signalled by the jangle of the great keys he carried, brought Dent out of his fascination,. Odd, he thought, that Harry Bantock, his mentor, didn't stir his lust in that way. Every bit the powerful male athlete but none of the strange animal magnetism of Dursley somehow. Great strength in thighs, butt, abs, chest, shoulders, arms, he'd be such a buzz to fuck with, a real powerhouse of a sexual partner.

Perhaps his gaze tarried too long on the body of the boss, maybe there was something about him after all, he'd always assumed that Bantock's interest was entirely professional, focussed in on the precise perfection of an exercise but maybe his focus was deeper in the muscle than Dent thought. What about the way he studied Ellis in his power squats, as the bar bent over the big man's shoulders and he lowered his arse towards the mat, perhaps that look on Bantock's face was disguising more admiration than a coach would usually be prepared to display? Sure, he wanted Ellis to do well, as he did with all the boys but it was a special pride he held for the work of that big fella, Ellis, for sure. 

In a typical, Official way, Bantock, legs planted wide and confident, hands clasped behind him in relaxed anticipation, coughed gently to remind Dent that he was not alone with his thoughts. Alas for Dent, his great, throbbing horse cock had sprung into life and the prison issue joggers and shorts were hopelessly poor camouflage for the flesh tube extending down the powerful little prisoner's furry leg as he turned to face the boss. It was as Bantock's face flushed red that Dent knew his deductions about Bantock were at least in part true. 

He said "Sorry, Boss." in a modest tone, almost as if her were actually ashamed, even though he felt no such embarrassment. He hefted his impossibly thick rod with his left hand as if endeavoring to conceal his erection. A look of horrified fascination flashed almost imperceptibly across Bantock's face before he pulled himself together and ordered Dent into his tiny office as Dursley, oblivious, moved in the other direction towards the changing room.

Once again an impossible situation crashed over Bantock but at least his presence of mind was clear enough to realise he had made this man's potential future and could derail it very easily. He released his cock and balls from the stifling pressure of his gym shorts and for only the second time in his entire life stood sexually aroused in front of another man. Dent was not about to pass up an opportunity such as this and fell forward onto his knees expertly swallowing the whole of Bantock's entirely adequate cock and taking his breath away. Once the head of Harry's cock was in his throat, Dent could wrestle free from his own shorts and the relief of letting out his bent and squashed in erection brought tears to his eyes. Once this was accomplished he started to use circular breathing and his throat muscles to work on Bantock's rock hard cock occasionally backing off to lap tenderly and delightedly at the glans and Bantock's piss slit as a succession of tiny gasps and the rolling of astonished eyes countered Dent's contented purrs of satisfaction. 

Dent had hurt more than a few men who had craved his magnificent fuck tool, some pretty seriously. Much as Dent was gagging to pinion the gym supremo now he was a quivering mess in Dent's hot mouth, he was not about to exert his lust on a heavier man he could probably not subdue and rupturing Bantock's inside could not fail to bring about the orderly's downfall. Besides, he was having a great time, confined in the tight space of the little office, his cock bouncing up against his belly as he sucked, supporting himself by gripping the hard, globular buttocks of his mentor. 

Gently easing off the tumescent glans with a few laps and kisses, looking up into Bantock's amazed face, he massaged Bantock's arse with his powerful paws and as he reached out with the tip of his tongue for the very end of Bantock's cock he touched the tight and frightened button of Bantock's anus with his thick index finger. As if a bolt of electricity had shot through him, Bantock's legs buckled and an incoherent grunt rose from his throat. With an audible thump, he fell back against the door but he let go as Dent plunged forward once more into Bantock's pubic hair. As the slippery wet rocket crammed back into the lunging gullet of the kneeling wolf-man, Dent pressed his finger back into the hairy forest around Bantock's spasming anus and touched it again. Bantock's wad swelled like a bow wave up from his guts and out through the constriction of Dent's massaging throat, his massive thighs, strained, quaking and shaking with the unconscious effort, so far out of his control as to seem dis-embodied. Dent kept the whole of his boss' penis entirely submerged and continued to milk Bantock's balls, rippling the muscles of his talented throat, forcing the bigger man to judder again and again in a daze of sexual bliss he could never have conceived of knowing. 

While Bantock was totally helpless, Dent turned him carefully towards the door and began to snuffle his stubbled face into Bantock's arse, half expecting the coach to regain consciousness and call time-out but far from it. Bannock whimpered and back his arse right out onto Dent's face, endeavouring to envelope it completely with his downy buttocks as Dent expertly drilled his way towards the big man's greatest asset. Gripping the gym officer's massive quads, Dent pulled himself in as Bantock pushed back and Dent now knew that one day, not today but one day, the Little Wolf would be banging on that big man arse for sure and Bantock would be begging him to split him in two with his jackhammer fucking. 

How's that for a vision of the future? Thought the diminutive orderly.

Still on his knees, with his face as far into the warmth and welcome of Harry Bantock as he could press himself, Dent spluttered his own orgasm and squirted a foot of jizz across the vinyl flooring towards the gap under the door. Bantock continued to gasp for breath, chest heaving, and as he felt the trumpeting against his ring, he popped his nut again, all over the back of the door, his face pathetically squashed, helpless, ecstatically distorted against the institutional grey-green paintwork. There they stayed for 30 seconds, a minute, two. Dent still lapping automatically at the delighted organ he had discovered. Bantock, spluttering breath, so disorientated and confused by his lust and his emotions as to have utterly become somebody else in 10 minutes. Destroyed and remade.

First to his senses, Dent, even distracted as he was, his member, drooping slightly but still throbbing with sexual delight, his shining knob, connected by a thread-like drool from it's tip to the glob on the floor, saw a shadow move in the light coming from the other side of the door. All the noises they had been producing, undeniably sexual in nature, transmitted to the eavesdropping officer on the other side.

As the action quieted, Dursley said nothing, turned his key in the gate and left the building, his footsteps echoing in the courtyard outside as he turned towards the security headquarters. "After all," he thought with a filthy grin, "You never know when you need a lever on somebody."

Realising the significance of Dursley's witness, shocked Bantock into consciousness and he turned back sharply into the room, leaving a print of saliva on his stubbled face and cum dribbles down the paintwork.

"Wha.." was all he could initially manage as a surge of panic overcame him and his eyes popped at the thought of possible consequences as he struggled for coherence. 

He looked down at the mess between his legs, at the skid of cum and the furry little man who had launched it. Dent's chiseled face looked up into his and he winked, they both had so much to lose but had just felt something that kind of made it all okay and for the first time in weeks Bantock laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. They had gone so far beyond the credible that it no longer mattered. Dent straightened slightly and was able to reach the dome of Bantock's penis slurping it back into his mouth, relishing it and the bigger man, reaching down, planted a big, masculine hand on the back of his head and petted the little wolf.