PART 1: "First day in prison"
I’m Ethan, 20, 5'7", 135 pounds. Skinny twink, pale skin that never tans, soft brown hair that falls over my eyes when I'm nervous—which is always. I'm quiet, still deep in the closet, and my only real experience is a couple of rushed handjobs in the back of a car. But my fantasies are filthy, massive older men pinning me down with their raw weight, breeding me until I'm leaking, stuffed, helpless, craving more even as I hate it.
It was a house party at some guy from college’s place. Too much cheap beer, too many shots. I was drunk, stupid drunk. Laughing too loud, dancing like an idiot.
Then this cop shows up. Big guy, red hair, mustache, easily 72, 545 pounds. Uniform tight around his huge gut, sweat stains already under the arms even though it’s cool outside. Name tag says “Officer Vic.”
He’s there for noise complaint, but everyone scatters. I’m too drunk to run fast. I stumble into him—literally. My hands land on his belly, soft but heavy, pushing against the buttons.
“Damn, officer… you’re… big.”
My drunk brain thinks it’s funny. I squeeze a little, slide a hand lower, brushing his crotch.
He freezes. Eyes wide. Then grabs my wrists hard.
“That’s assault on an officer, boy.”
I giggle. “Come on… you like it.”
Next thing I know, cuffs. Cold metal. Thrown in the back of his cruiser.
The ride is a blur. He’s breathing heavy in the front seat, glancing in the mirror.
“You’re in deep trouble, kid.”
I wake up with a pounding headache. Cold concrete under me. Naked.
I’m in a cell. Bars, thin mattress on a metal bunk. No clothes. Just me, curled up, shivering.
The cell door opens with a heavy clang.
A massive man steps in. 62, 530 pounds. Gray hair, thick beard, prison orange stretched tight over his gut and thighs. Eyes hungry, cock already half-hard in his pants, the outline visible.
“Doyle,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel. “Your new cellmate.”
He closes the door behind him with a deliberate click.
I scramble back on the bunk, covering myself with my hands.
“Where are my clothes? What the hell is this?”
Doyle smiles slow, stepping closer, his belly swaying with each step.
“Clothes are a privilege here, boy. You earn them. One piece at a time.”
His shadow falls over me. The bunk creaks as he sits on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. His thigh presses against my bare leg—hot, heavy, sweaty.
I push against his chest with both hands.
My palms sink into soft flesh over hard muscle. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he grabs my wrists easy—one huge hand around both—like they’re nothing.
Pins them above my head against the cold wall.
His full weight shifts forward.
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as his belly settles on my chest, crushing me into the thin mattress.
I gasp, struggle, legs kicking uselessly.
He leans in, beard tickling my neck, breath hot and stale.
“First lesson, boy. You’re mine now.”
His free hand slides down my side, rough palm over ribs, hip, thigh.
I twist, try to buck him off.
He laughs low, presses harder—his gut smothering my chest, making every breath a fight.
His cock, thick and hard, grinds against my thigh through his pants.
He shifts, frees it—hot, heavy, already leaking.
I cry out as he sinks in—stretch burning, his weight pinning me completely.
He thrusts deep, rhythmic, belly slapping my skin with each move.
Sweat drips from his brow onto my face.
I protest the whole time—“stop, get off, I don’t want this”—but my body betrays me, tightening around him.
First load—warm, flooding.
He stays buried long, grinding.
Leak starts immediately, warm down my thigh.
He pats my cheek, still pinning my wrists.
“Good boy. You’re mine now.”
He stands, tucks himself away.
Pulls me up by the arm—firm, possessive.
“Come on. Time for walkies.”
He leads me out of the cell—naked, leaking, hand in his huge paw like I’m his pet.
The block is long, cells on both sides. All occupied by older men—60s, 70s, heavy, hairy, staring.
“Look at Doyle’s new boy—already leaking down his leg.”
“Pretty little thing. Can’t wait for my turn.”
I burn red, try to cover myself with my free hand.
Doyle squeezes my hand hard.
“No hiding, boy. Everyone gets a look.”
We walk the whole block slow.
Every prisoner eyes me up, some stroke themselves through pants.
Doyle proud, like showing off a prize.
Back in the cell, he sits on the bunk, pulls me onto his lap again.
“Rule here is simple,” he says, hand on my thigh, smearing the leak.
“To get out, you serve every man in this wing. Prisoners. Guards. All of us.”
“No way. I’ll fight. I’ll tell someone.”
“No one to tell, boy. This is the Elders’ Wing. Special rules. You serve… or you stay forever.”
Vic, the red-haired cop, opens the cell.
Sweating already, shirt dark under arms.
“Time for your morning duty, kid.”
Doyle hands me over with a wink.
Vic leads me naked down the hall to the officers’ bathroom.
Private, tiled, one toilet, sink.
He stands over the toilet.
“Remember last night? You wanted to touch. Now you serve.”
He pisses—warm stream hitting the bowl loud in the silence.
Then strokes himself slow, red face flushed more.
“Your breakfast, drunk boy. Open.”
He holds my jaw, forces it open.
First load of the day—thick ropes down my throat.
I swallow, gagging, tears in eyes.
He laughs, wipes the last drop on my lip.
“Every morning. Every guard. Every prisoner. That’s how you earn your freedom.”
“Or stay my little pet forever.”
Back in the cell, Doyle waiting.
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