The state judge glanced over his half-moon specs, shuffled his papers and cleared his throat.
‘Jesse Smyth,’ he declared with intent, eyeing the cocky young offender before him. ‘You have been found guilty by this court, and it is the State of Michigan’s intention to take this opportunity to demonstrate that the rule of law must be upheld, and that petty criminals such as yourself will not be tolerated. I am therefore sentencing you to two years at Kalamazoo Penitentiary, and give strict instructions for you to be held in Cell Block Q for at least the first six months of your time there.’
Smyth’s lawyer – a diminutive, balding man – immediately jumped to his feet, with a look of desperation on his face that sharply contrasted to his young client’s complacency. ‘Your Honour,’ he began, ‘if I may have the opportunity to speak …’
Judge Hastings paused. Then gave a heavy sigh. ‘Twenty seconds only, Mr. Ross,’ he replied.
‘Your Honour, my client has been found guilty only of very minor crimes. Under the circumstances, I really do believe that sending him to Cell Block Q is somewhat draconian!’
The judge cleared his throat again, taking note once again of Smyth’s casual manner. ‘Your client, Mr. Ross, is a petty criminal, who clearly shows little regard for this court, and whose crimes will no doubt grow steadily worse unless it is checked at this early stage. As such, I have no hesitation in instructing the prison authorities to hold the prisoner to my instructions.’
He grabbed his hammer to clear the court for the next case; whilst Smyth himself was manhandled out of the room by two burly cops, both of whom seemed strangely amused at the young fellow’s fate, and who took great pleasure in highlighting the fact.
‘Gees, man,’ the one exclaimed, as they marched down the corridor towards the awaiting transport. ‘I’m sure as hell glad that it’s not me going to Cell Block Q!’
‘The stories you hear of that place,’ commented the other with a grin, evidently keen to upset the confidence of their boastful charge. ‘Yeah, there’s not many who leave that place the same man as they first went in, that’s for sure!’
‘Hey that’s funny, man!’ remarked the first officer again, with a hearty splutter. ‘Real funny!’
‘Fuck off, you jerks!’ Smyth finally retorted, evidently not bothered by their banter. ‘It’s just a fucking state jail I’m going to, not Alcatraz! And oh yeah, I’m really scared!’ he added scornfully.
The cops glanced knowingly at each other; then laughed once again at his ignorance.
‘Yeah, of course,’ the second officer groaned at last, with obvious irony. ‘It’s just a jail!’
And with that they slammed him into the dark; with only another reel of uncontrollable giggles to wish him luck.
*****
Jesse Smyth was not a bad lad.
Foolish, yeah. Arrogant, sure. But not intrinsically evil or corrupt.
Fact is, like a good many other young guys in their time, he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. Engaging in a course of minor burglaries and car crime that, in themselves, were arguably insignificant. But which, when added together, made for quite a catalogue of misdemeanours, and that appeared to suggest a slow but marked intensity of criminality.
Which explained Judge Hasting’s decision to nip the problem in the bud. As he sentenced the cocksure twenty year old to a punishment that very few young men would envy.
For let’s be honest, the Justice knew exactly what he was doing in reaching his verdict. Realised only too fully how a pretty twink would be treated in Cell Block Q. After all, he’d sent more than enough young guys there in his time to know that the fellow’s self-assurance would soon be knocked out of him, and that Smyth would quickly be left wishing that he’d trod the straight and narrow path rather than follow a life of crime. Because like the cops had suggested, few men ever left the confines of that particular cell with quite the strut or swagger with which they arrived; and had the youngster took chance to observe the smirk on the Judge’s face when they’d him from the dock, he’d have realised that Hastings took pleasure in such tender realisation himself.
Yeah, no doubt about it, Cell Block Q was the sort of place that most petty villains wished they could leave from the very moment they arrived, and which precious few ever desired to return to once they had been withdrawn to another quarter of the prison. Little wonder that the majority of felons were models of impeccable behaviour during their remaining residence at the Penitentiary!
Not that Jesse Smyth knew any of this during the course of the long, sweaty journey there. Which was perhaps just as well, given that it promised to be the last peace of mind he’d have to enjoy for quite some considerable time. For like most guys his age, he was full of brash and brimming with spunk; and he certainly wasn’t flustered by the tittle-tattle of half-crazed cops, whose days were filled chasing crooks simply because they’d never had the balls to be crooks themselves! Indeed, there was no doubt in his naive little thoughts that he’d soon have the Penitentiary governor wrapped around his little finger, and that he’d be ensconced in the best room in jail enjoying waiter-service before the week was even out!
Yeah, no question about it, the next two years were gonna be like an extended holiday. And, in the meantime, Judge John Hastings could just go and fuck himself!
And so it was, four hours after being sentenced, with a breathless July sun beating down on the world, that the prison van swept through the gates of the jail with Cell Block Q’s newest arrival. All six-one and 180 pounds of him. A quiff in his dark brown hair and a smile still on his lips, despite his manacles; and a twinkle in his chocolate eyes that seemed totally at odds with the desolate camp around him. Indeed, judging from the aura of superiority that the youngster gave off as he stepped out from the vehicle, you’d have honestly thought that he’d won the World Series or something – a fact that was not overlooked by any of the guards, all of whom no doubt relished the prospect of bringing another young pup to heel.
‘So then,’ drooled a heavy voice from behind, as Governor Foles stepped out into the courtyard to greet his visitor. ‘What have we got here, I wonder …?’
‘This is Jesse Smyth,’ explained one of the sentries, handing his boss the documentation relating to the new resident. ‘Smyth has been sentenced to two years detention, of which at least the first six months must be spent within the confines of Cell Block Q.’
Foles – a tall, handsome, well-built guy in his mid-thirties – glanced at the paperwork and raised a smile. ‘Jones,’ he snapped to another officer, ‘inform the prisoner his rights.’
‘Prisoner 78331,’ drawled the young guard in the offender’s direction. ‘You are held here in accordance to the instruction of the State of Michigan, and in so doing have no rights!’
Smyth, being Smyth, could not refrain from scoffing at such a perverse statement. ‘Of course I have fucking rights!’ he exclaimed vehemently. ‘I have rights under the Constitution!’
‘Believe me, 78331,’ repeated the officer. ‘Prisoners in Cell Block Q have no rights!’
‘I’m a fucking American citizen!’ the convict proclaimed defiantly, the veins throbbing in his neck. ‘And as such I have rights under the American Constitution. Understand me?!’
Governor Foles edged forward. ‘Prisoner,’ he began with a steely coldness. ‘On this one occasion we shall overlook your impertinence. You are new here, and perhaps do not understand the technicalities of your residence. Like Officer Jones says, you have no rights here in Cell Block Q and, as such, would be best to remember this fact at all times. What is more, given my understanding of the young men who come here, I very much doubt that there is anyone alive who cares that you are here at all. Contrast that to the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay, who possibly have loved ones awaiting their eventual release, and who at least have the jerks in the media to worry about their interests. Believe me, prisoners here do not have such privileges, and you would do best to remember it at all times.’
‘But I am an American citizen!’ Smyth retorted. ‘And under the Constitution -‘
His protests came to an immediate halt, as Foles thrashed his gloved hand across the young man’s face. ‘You seem to have some difficulty in understanding what is being said here,’ the Governor noted. ‘I really do hope that this is not an indication of things to come. For your sake, as much as ours.’
Smyth whelped in shock as much as agony, but the look in his dark brown eyes seemed to indicate a new flush of determination despite the unexpected assault. ‘You don’t frighten me!’ he glared. ‘You hear me? You don’t frighten me at all!’
Foles gave an almost flippant flick of his deep blue eyes. ‘Boy, I don’t care whether you’re frightened of me or not,’ he calmly assured. ‘I mean let’s face it, I don’t care whether you live or die here, so your personal regard to me is quite inconsequential. All that concerns me and my officers is that you do exactly what you’re told, when you’re told to do it. What’s more, we have ways of making sure that that happens. Believe me. Especially when it comes to pretty boys like yourself.’
The Governor turned to Jones. ‘When did Boner last have company?’ he quizzed.
His deputy grinned, eyeing the new prisoner up and down. ‘Two months ago, Sir,’ he confirmed. ‘Sure guess he must be ready to do a little more entertaining by now …’
Foles clicked his fingers to a couple of guards to his right, before stepping aside. ‘Remove the prisoner’s clothing!’ he ordered – at which point Smyth was pounded on from all directions. His prison boiler-suit plucked away from in just a matter of seconds, and (since his hands were still cuffed behind his back) leaving him fully exposed to the attention of whatever eye cared to admire such candy.
For the very first time since his arrival, there was a fleeting shimmer of embarrassment on Smyth’s young face. But it was a temporary transformation; and before a few more seconds had passed the prisoner was again ranting his indignity. An act that fell very much on deaf ears.
‘Silence!’ the Governor roared. His physical presence towering over the entire proceedings, and helping to bring about an immediate (and surprisingly premature) end to Smyth’s complaints.
‘Clothes are not required for any prisoner in Cell Block Q,’ Foles calmly explained, stepping towards the freshman once again. ‘They are a privilege that residents will only regain if and when they graduate to the main penitentiary.’
‘But -‘ Prisoner 78331 tried to begin.
‘You will ask for permission to speak at all times!’ the Governor barked, snarling straight into the lad’s tender face and snorting down his manly nostrils. ‘Understand me! At all times!’
Foles hardly took breath to continue.
‘You are no longer an American citizen in this establishment. Indeed, you are hardly a human being at all. What’s more, you can expect to be treated as such!’
And with that he promptly cut Smyth’s legs from right under him with his own leg. Forcing the young man down onto the concrete beneath, so that now he was sat naked with Foles standing upright over him. Threatening to kick the shit out of the cocky young guy at any given moment.
‘I really do hope that I’m getting my message across here,’ the presiding officer scoffed, fishing into his fly as he did so. ‘But just in case you’re in any doubt as to my intentions …’
And with that he immediately pulled out his cock, aimed in Smyth’s direction, and began to piss all over the fellow’s head. Much to the lad’s disgruntlement, it must be said.
‘You fuckin’ bastard!’ Smyth gasped, as much out of shock as anything. But the Governor clearly did not take too kindly to his retort, and as a result now invited his officers to follow his example. Yanking out their shafts, and emptying their bladders right over the indignant youth.
‘Believe me,’ Foles now exclaimed menacingly, zipping himself up again, ‘you will find we have much more humiliating methods than this to ensure a prisoner learns his place here. Why, we even have one officer who likes nothing better than to spoon-feed his own excrement to any unruly resident who takes his fancy. So if I were you, I’d best take care to hold that tongue of yours …’
‘Now,’ he abruptly ordered to his men, ‘wash the bastard down!’
The rookie inmate hardly had chance to realise what was happening. Trying desperately to get to his feet, he was met with a sudden hard spray of cold water, as several of the guards merrily opened fire on him with fire-hoses. As a result, any attempt on his part to stand was rendered utterly useless, and within just a few seconds the boy appeared to accept that he had little choice but to sit and take his punishment. Burying his head between his legs, whilst the water bit into his tender flesh like a scourer.
For five whole minutes – and what seemed like an absolute eternity to Prisoner 78331 – the deluge continued unabated. Its ferocity only concluded at Governor Foles’s discretion. By this time, of course, Smyth was visibly dithering as a result of the cold. His chin shaking so much that he could hardly have spoken even if he had dared to. His cock notably shrivelled when he was ordered to get to his feet and stand upright to attention.
‘Right,’ proclaimed Foles, with a wry grin on his lips, ‘I think we’re getting somewhere at last …’ And with that he clicked his fingers at one of the guards, who stepped behind the young hostage with a pair of angry looking clippers.
‘Under the rules of this camp,’ he continued in his usual precise manner, ‘prisoners are not allowed hair on their head that is longer than one-eighth of an inch.’ And with that he clicked his fingers once again, signalling that the officer could begin to shave into Smyth’s thick, dark mass.
The fuzz fell to the ground in heavy clods, but on this occasion the new resident did not appear to have the effort to protest. Instead, he merely stood in a near-tearful coma. Perhaps experiencing – for the very first time – that initial sense of regret that almost every new prisoner here felt in his time. That desperate wish for a reprieve that they knew, deep down, was not going to come.
‘Whilst on the subject of hair,’ Foles clinically explained, ‘it is the policy here to restrict the display of pubic hair to those prisoners who are deemed to deserve it. A matter held purely on my discretion, I may add. As a new resident here in Cell Block Q you will be shaved clean, and will be expected to remain smooth at all times until you are notified personally by myself otherwise. Is that understood …?’
Smyth – whose haircut was now almost complete – gave a slight nod of the head.
‘Is that understood?’ the Governor repeated.
‘Yes …’ the prisoner finally retorted. The shame written across his handsome face.
‘Yes, sir!’ Foles snapped impatiently.
Smyth tried to clear his throat. ‘Yes, s-sir …’ he repeated with a stutter; whilst the clippers turned their attention to his crotch, cutting into his pubes with an almost sinister buzz.
And then, to the young lad’s complete and utter shame, something terrible began to happen.
Perhaps it was the feel of the shaver against his most private quarters, brushing up to the base of his cock and around his heavy balls. Or maybe it was just the fact that he hadn’t been able to jerk off yet today. Or possibly – though he sincerely hoped not! – it was the presence of a guy between his legs. Whatever the reason, Smyth began to get a hard-on. His pole swelling up before him like an inflatable tent, as the razor continued to smooth its way across his exposed flesh. Jutting out with such wanton magnificence that it almost immediately became the attention of everyone that was present. And forcing its somewhat abashed owner into a glow of pure and unadulterated embarrassment.
Fact is, Jesse Smyth could’ve quite easily wished for the ground to swallow him up right there and then. But as he was quickly discovering, in Cell Block Q there were no such luxuries.
‘Well, well …’ the Governor smiled, privately impressed with the young man’s weaponry. ‘Looks like you’re enjoying that bit of attention. Still,’ he continued, ‘we’ll soon make sure you’re not bothered by that sort of problem again …’
Prisoner 78331 looked genuinely menaced. For he obviously wasn’t certain as to what his superior meant.
‘You are a category A2 prisoner,’ Foles explained. ‘And as such will be placed on a category A2 diet. This means that all your food and water will contain lots and lots of bromide. And bromide will help restrain these sort of urges. Will help you forget all about sex. In fact, it won’t be too long before you’ll be struggling to remember what a hard-on feels like.
‘Which brings us onto the delicate matter of category A1 prisoners, whose behaviour is deemed to warrant a category A1 diet – Boner being one such inmate, as you will shortly discover. A1 prisoners no longer receive bromide in their food and drink. Indeed on the contrary, they are fed a diet rich in aphrodisiacs. Proteins and minerals that help restore their growth of pubic hair, and which leaves them feeling horny as hell. And I mean, horny! Believe me, these guys think about sex 24/7, and look for relief wherever they can find it. Which pretty much sums a guy like Boner up. A walking, talking sex-machine, who always loves to meet up with a handsome new inmate such as yourself …’
Smyth’s cock began to shrink with the Governor’s every word. As he began to realise the enormity of what he was being told. Not that he actually believed it, if truth were told. After all, whilst his brief experience at Cell Block Q was already more than enough to suggest that Foles wasn’t joking, he still couldn’t quite bring himself round to believing what the man had just implied. Namely that guys like himself were open game to those other prisoners who had somehow found the Governor’s favour, and were used and abused in whatever form took their superiors’ fancy.
Indeed, despite everything he was now beginning to understand about the prison – of all the intimate horrors that its walls contained – the young man was still of a mind to take the words he had just heard as a wistful joke. Yet glancing up (somewhat hopefully) in the direction of his master, he quickly began to realise that everything he had heard was true. The Governor, it seemed, was not of a nature to jest after all; and it was with almost a subconscious reflex that he felt his virgin ring tighten. As if to throw some meaningless gesture of defiance in the wake of his destiny.
‘Ready for inspection, Sir …’ declared the officer who had shaved the charge, stepping back proudly from his labour.
Governor Foles started to gracefully step around Smyth with typically eager eyes. Observing the newly cropped scalp and the tight, rounded buns. But, most of all, the freshly-scraped groin. Its once-healthy crop of pubes now completely removed, leaving the new resident with a decidedly boyish appearance. Smyth’s show of manhood peeled away as a vain and impudent impostor.
‘My how the proud have fallen …’ Foles remarked before instructing another officer to thrust the prisoner number around the felon’s neck.
‘Say cheese!’ he then mocked, as a series of photographs was taken.
‘Do we have a list of the offender’s associates?’ the Governor finally enquired.
‘I believe we do, Sir …’ Jones dutifully informed him.
‘Excellent. No doubt our friend here would love the people he knows outside to have a memento of this special occasion – you know, just so that they can see that he’s okay and in good health. What do you think, Jones?’
‘I believe he’s almost overcome with excitement just at the thought,’ mocked the officer.
‘Still,’ sighed Foles, looking straight into Smyth’s dark eyes and seeing (for the first time) genuine fear, ‘let’s not be too hasty. The fellow might surprise us, after all. Let’s just make sure only his mother receives a copy and leave it at that …
‘For now,’ he then added with a menacing tone.
‘Right,’ the Governor exclaimed, glancing at his watch in almost carefree manner, ‘time for a nice cup of coffee I’d say. And,’ he then continued, glancing back at Prisoner 78331, ‘time for you to make the acquaintance of Prisoner 71432. Otherwise known as Boner – for reasons that I think will become painfully clear to you in due course.
‘By the way,’ he added, stepping right up to Smyth so as to bear down on the lad like an unforgiving tornado, ‘I’d be nice to Boner if I were you. You may find that he becomes a little unrefined if he thinks you’re not obliging, and I’d hate that to happen. We once had one young guy here – not too unlike yourself – who thought it might somehow help his cause to bite when he should’ve been sucking. Needless to say, Boner soon made sure he never bit anyone ever again. The lad had just three teeth left in by the time my men got to him, and two of those were broken …’
Suddenly, and without warning, the youngster did what he’d secretly been threatening to do for at least five minutes now. He pissed himself involuntarily.
‘Gees, boy,’ Foles grinned, ‘I do hope we haven’t frightened you too much. Boner’s a great guy, believe me. But he’s like a dog. Has to mark his territory and that …’
And with those words still ringing in his ears, Smyth was pulled away inside.
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