in a prison – Page 5 – Mansploitation

Teddy brought a duffel bag of mostly clothes from Knuckle’s place to the big central booking station in downtown Martinsburg. Teddy had never been there before. It was nerve-wracking.
But he made it through the inspection process and was allowed to bring the duffel bag to the prisoner, Knuckle. He had been arrested for that unlicensed bare-knuckle boxing match. He only had to do eight months, which seemed like a long time to Teddy, though Knuckle described it as “as easy as leaves”, whatever that meant.
“Thank you,” Knuckle said, his voice gravelly and grim. He took the duffel bag from Teddy. It had all of his belongings that he was allowed to take with him to prison. Teddy had agreed to store Knuckle’s other stuff in his apartment, so Knuckle wouldn’t lose anything while he was away.
“Don’t mention it,” Teddy said off-handedly. “You sure you’ll be okay in there? I know, you’ll have Buck, just be careful…” Buck Sampson was another bouncer from Lipsweet. He was inside doing a year-long bid for an unrelated incident, and Mr. Gregarian had arranged for Knuckle and Buck to be cellmates. They were both under the protection of the Gray Snakes.
So they should be safe, or as safe as anyone in prison could be.
Knuckle’s lip quivered. It was maybe one-sixteenth of a smile, but it was the closest thing to a smile Teddy had seen yet on Knuckle’s face. All Knuckle said was, “I’ll repay you. Fer bein’ nice.”
“You don’t need to do that, it’s just keeping some stuff in my closet,” Teddy said. But even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t the main nice thing Knuckle meant — what he meant was that Teddy had come to see him and said he hoped he was safe. That was the nice thing that Knuckle appreciated.
Knuckle thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll send you a gift. You workin’ tonight?”
Teddy nodded. “I’m going straight to Lipsweet from here.”
And then the guard came to get Teddy to escort him out, so they said goodbye to each other. He made sure to write down the state prison’s phone number and Knuckle’s intake number before he left. Then he went back to Lipsweet to work a shift with a heavy heart.
He was surprised by how much he missed Knuckle. Working the door tonight was Davon, that asshole-pimp, whom the girls loved because he was so handsome. Honestly, Teddy also got a thrill in his heart when Davon spoke to him, but that wasn’t often. He treated Teddy like it was beneath him to talk to him.
Finally, the end of the night came, and Teddy hightailed it home. He was glad to see there was still no Bax in the shower — Bax had finally gotten the message, it seemed. So he showered alone, then got ready for bed.
But there came a low, quiet, knock at the door. “Hey, uh, Teddy? I’m lookin’ fer a Teddy.”
It was a low growly voice, much too baritone and expressive to be Knuckle, though it had a certain gravelliness to it that reminded Teddy of Knuckle. He looked through the peephole.
It was a biker, it seemed. He was a young man with a tattooed gray snake visible on his neck, likely more beneath his leather jacket. Military-style patches dotted the jacket. His hair was jet-black and greasy, and he had a blockish jaw like a caveman.
“Teddy?”
“What? Who’re you?”
“I’m Python. I’m with the Gray Snakes-” He was fixing to say more, but the door opened. Teddy stood there in his sweatpants, his slim torso naked.
“Is Knuckle okay? He only just got to the state prison, right? Did something happen already?”

“He’s fine,” Python said. He shrugged. “Probly. I dunno.” He pushed his way inside. “You got someone you need me to take a run at?” He made little fists and shadowboxed the air. His heavy booted feet clomped on the floor. His leather jacket shuffled with his punches, and his jeans were scuffed and caked with dried mud that he was tracking into the apartment.

“Stop, stop, stop stomping on the floor. My downstairs neighbors hate that,” Teddy said. “I… What? You want to fight someone?”
Python shrugged. “Whatevuh. Knuckle ain’t speak clear. I talked to him a couple hours ago. He say I gotta come do what’choo want.” He looked at Teddy like Teddy was supposed to tell him something.
Teddy just raised his eyebrows. “Okay…”
“He said somethin’ ’bout me bein’ a present, fer you. You need somethin’. Prolly a fight, cuz he wanted me here late at night and said it was gonna hurt,” Python said. He shrugged and cocked his head like he was being punched. His tough-guy jaw chewed. “Whatevuh. I can take some punishment.”
“Oooooh… You owe him a favor, I guess?”
Python blushed a little and looked down. “I, uh… I owe the gang a favor. The Gray Snakes. Like… a lotta favors. Like… ’bout twenty-four grand in favors,” he said. “So they pick me to go fight guys a lot.” He took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the couch. His biceps were bared by a cut-off black tee shirt, which was ripped down the side to reveal his ropy-muscled chest. He again shadowboxed, this time keeping his heavy feet still so he didn’t clomp on the floor. Teddy watched his hefty pecs shifting up and down with each punch. Python was sweaty, jazzed up, like he’d been working himself up for a fight. “So who is it? Ya landlord, I ‘xpect?”
“No, it’s… It’s not that,” Teddy said. “Why don’t you take your pants off? You want a drink?”
“Hell yeah.” He stood there, no longer shadowboxing, just looking at Teddy like he didn’t make sense. “Take my pants off?”
Teddy shrugged as he went into the kitchen. “I have rum. You want some rum?”
“I could murder a rum and coke,” Python said. He stood with his hands on his belt, ready to take his pants off. But he thought he musta misheard that. “What’d you say? You want me to take my pants off?”
“Yeah,” Teddy said from the kitchen. “I don’t have any soda. Or any mixers really. Sorry, I’m a bad bartender.” He chuckled. “I don’t keep anything with carbs in the kitchen, I would just drink too much of it. So you’ll have to drink it straight. You want ice? It’s spiced rum, if that makes a difference.”
“Yeah, ice is cool.” Python scrunched up his eyes, his belt half undone. Finally he shrugged and dropped his jeans. He wore plain white boxers. Teddy came in with the drinks, and Python said, “So you don’t want me to fight nobody?”
Teddy shook his head. He motioned for Python to sit on the couch, but then Teddy didn’t sit next to him. He went to the closet rack of DVDs by the TV, and he found one that was unmarked. “No, no fighting. Just hang out with me tonight.” He put the DVD in the machine.
“Oh, you gettin’ threats?” Python said. “If I gotta get up and out in a hurry, I should have my pants on-“
“No, no threats.” Teddy finally sat down next to Python.
Python’s questions stopped when he saw the screen. It was a hardcore porno. A pretty blonde woman was visible, undressing to faintly heard music. Python’s eyes opened wide. “Oh shit, porno?”
Teddy nodded. “Don’t tell anyone. All porno is illegal in the city of Martinsburg,” he said. He got up to cut the light off, then he got up on the back of the couch instead of a cushion. He sat behind Python, who ignored him, and Teddy casually lifted the wifebeater over Python’s head.
Python was deeply engrossed in the porno and sipping his rum. He barely noticed Teddy undressing behind him.
But instead, Teddy’s dick pressed against Python’s spine. It was rock-hard already, and he rubbed it up and down Python’s muscles.
“Oh goddamn, she’s hot. See how her ass jiggles like that…” Python whistled. He leaned back — still ignoring Teddy’s dick rubbing against him, so his lean put his whole torso in front of Teddy, whose hands roamed across his powerfully muscled torso. Python dropped his underwear.
He had a thick knobbly cock, already hard, as he began stroking it without taking his eyes off the screen. Teddy slid down to the couch cushions and put it in his mouth.
“Ah, shit, you owe Knuckle too? You don’t gotta jerk me off, man,” Python said. But when Teddy didn’t stop, he just sucked in his breath and leaned back on the couch. Unsure whether he was doing something wrong, Python closed his eyes and tried not think about it. His dick slid into Teddy’s soft, warm throat. “You really don’t got to. Ain’t — did somebody — ooooooh, shit, yeah, did somebody tell you you hafta do it?”
Teddy looked up at Python without taking his dick outta his mouth and shook his head, but Python’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see that. His cock rocketed to erection in Teddy’s throat.
As Teddy’s tongue worked its way up and down Python’s shaft, his dick throbbed and pulsated its way down Teddy’s throat. Cum sprayed into Teddy’s mouth.
“Ah, shit yeah, oh yeah…” Python murmured, his voice breaking. He took a drink from his glass while cum still spewed from his pecker. The taste was intensely bright, salty and sunny, and Teddy savored every drop’s flavor.
More and more kept coming. Teddy swallowed as much as he could, but he didn’t want to take Python’s rod out, so he let his mouth fill to the brim and overflow, soaking Python’s crotch. Even then he kept going.
“Aaaah, shit, man… Ah, thanks, I needed that,” Python said with a moan. “My ladyfriend don’t never suck me off.” He moaned again when Teddy finally pulled off his cock.
His eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see Teddy kiss him on his grizzled lips until it happened. He didn’t realize Teddy had neither spat nor swallowed. His mouth was full of jizz.
So he slid all of that semen into Python’s mouth when they kissed.
Python gagged, both from surprise and disgust when he realized what was in his mouth. Cum splattered all over Teddy’s smooth face but even more coated Python’s wind-grizzled face and scruffy beard. Teddy kept kissing, as Python squirmed beneath Teddy’s much smaller body. He grunted and squelched around the mask of cum, but he didn’t try to get out from under Teddy.
Teddy stood. He blushed. This was the awkward part. He had a big stiffy, and he gave it a stroke as he got closer to Python’s head. Python sneered.
“Aw, man, buddy, I ain’t know you was gonna want me to do it too,” Python said. His sneer turned into a gulp. One of his great big mitts gripped Teddy’s cock and stroked it lazily, limply. That was nice for Teddy, as his callused hands and disrhythmic rubbing brought Teddy back from the brink of orgasm.
Teddy held back a triumphant grin as Python stuck his tongue out. He didn’t lick Teddy’s dick, he just slowly stroked it in front of his tongue. Precum coated his tattooed hand, slicking up the calluses built up from there from his vibrating motorcycle. Teddy’s hands ran through Python’s tangled greasy mound of hair.
“You owe Knuckle a lot of money,” Teddy said. He leaned forward his dick jabbing Python in the nostrils.
Python gag-laughed. “Ewcchk,” he said, clearly disgusted but not especially upset by it. “Nah, I don’t owe Knuckle nothin’ personally. Knuckle got a higher rank than me.” He planted his tongue on Teddy’s cocktip only for his muscular body to shake as he gagged again.
The sight of that made Teddy moan. His whole body buckled, and he almost came. He giggled and leaned on Python’s tattooed shoulders, firm with muscle. His dick spewed precum that dripped onto Python’s mouth and chin.
“Sorry,” Teddy said. His cheeks were red. “I’m just… so horny. I need a girlfriend.” Python looked away, as Teddy’s dick slid into his mouth. Teddy thought he was going to cum, and he very nearly did, but his rod spewed so much precum that Python’s mouth overflowed and Python gagged.
Python’s whole body squirmed, then fell tensely still.
He patted Teddy on the backside. Teddy retreated, and Python hesitated, one hand up. Python had one hand over his mouth like he was holding in vomit.
Then all at once, his whole hairy body did undulate. He held his mouth shut with both hands and scampered off the couch. He ran to the bathroom.
“Uaaacchhhhkk!” Python spat up into the toilet. He gripped the toilet rim and spat up again. His legs were spread, baring his hairy asscheeks. “Sorry, fellah, I ain’t — I just hate that taste, tha’ss all.” He retched again.
His wiry, almost skinny body was taut, as he spat into the toilet. All of his muscles flexed with each retch.
He had no idea Teddy kneeled behind him. Teddy jerked his cock with one hand while he got into position. Python’s back writhed with each gag, and Python gripped the toilet-bowl rim with his tattooed hands. His asscheeks were spread wide.
So, without a word of warning, Teddy could easily slam his pecker into Python’s butthole, no lube — he was grabbing the bottle of lube from the medicine cabinet as he did it, but his cock moved on autopilot. Teddy gripped Python’s greasy hair.
“Ow, shit!” Python said. His back arched, and his face bumped on the toilet rim. “You gotta give a warning…”
Still holding the unused bottle of lube, Teddy moaned and undulated his body, humping Python’s butthole. Cum flowed into him. Teddy hadn’t meant to cum so quick, but he was already on the verge and couldn’t help himself.
Great creamy gobs of it filled Python up and dripped onto the bathroom floor. Teddy forced his dick in all the way mid-jizz, so Python’s ass squeezed around his cock. A frisson of orgasmic pleasure ran through Teddy’s body.
He pumped his dick all the way into Python’s guts and held it there. Python sucked in his breath.
“Oh god, that feels so good…” Teddy said with another moan. He leaned on Python’s broad back and licked some of the pained sweat up there, as Python violently gagged and groaned in pain into the toilet water. Teddy pulled on his greasy hair, still humping his limp dick in and out and turning Python’s butthole into a frothy mess of jizz.
“Shit, you best tell Knuckle I was good,” Python said, his voice staggered with each thrust of Teddy’s dick inside him.
He winced in pain as Teddy slowly let his limp dick slide out. Python still had his face over the toilet bowl, and when the pain grew exquisite enough, Teddy moaned and Python gagged once more into the toilet water. Then, finally, Teddy was done.
They both took deep chamberous breaths. Teddy leaned on Python’s warm back and hugged his muscles from behind, while Python lifted his head up away from the toilet.
Python grunted. “But can you tell Knuckle you had me beat up a guy? That’s what I’m gonna tell people.”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Eight

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

Cell 4990 was in the middle of the 49-block of the Epsilon Unit at the Eastern Panhandle State Prison. Warden Clifford was a rather hands-off warden, at least as far as the well-behaved cell blocks went. As long as the gang that controlled each area kept things quiet, they were allowed to do more or less whatever they wished.
So for the Gray Snakes, that meant obeying Jeffers. He was the leader of the Gray Snakes in Epsilon Unit, and he was devoutly religious. Among many other things, Jeffers forbade masturbation.
That seemed ridiculous to the rest of the gang, but there was no getting through to him. Buck and Knuckle shared a cell, one of those pod-type cells. In theory, they had privacy. In reality, Jeffers came in several times a day, and occasionally at night, to make sure they weren’t breaking any rules — no jacking off, no fighting, no “paganism” and no drugs or booze that came from a different gang.
So Knuckle ain’t jack off in the two weeks since he got here.
For the last hour of cell time before lights out, most of the inmates of the 49-Block — a variety of men, not just Gray Snakes — sat in their “stoop” — basically the thresholds of their pods. They could buy or steal a lawnchair to sit in. That hour was free “cell time”, so they ain’t allowed to go nowhere without a valid reason. But they could open their cell doors, and after much negotiating with the guards, they were allowed to sit in the threshold with their feet outside the cell, and they were allowed to lean forward so to see and speak to other inmates in the thresholds of other cells, but the entire chair had to remain in the cell, and the inmate’s center of gravity still had to be within the line, so the bulk of the inmate was in the cell.
The rules had been negotiated down to every last detail, as the inmates greatly cherished their stoop time.
Or at least, Buck did. Knuckle could take it or leave it. He liked that Buck sat in the threshold, so Knuckle had plenty of room to do his nightly workout — he ran back and forth in the narrow space, trying to get his heart rate up.
“Yo, you fellahs horny?” asked a big deep voice from outside the cell. Knuckle turned around and stopped his running, his heavily scarred body dripping with rivulets of sweat. Standing in front of Buck was a tall, reedy and long-limbed black man. “Two packs of smokes and I’ll get’cha started.”
A long empty pause filled the cell. Both Knuckle and Buck nearly said no out of instinct. But, they soon realized, now was a good time to do it. Jeffers was in the clinic tonight for a cardiac event. This big black fellah was not a Gray Snake, and ain’t nobody know him.
Buck scoffed. “Two packs to get started? Expensive, man…”
The black fellah, Damien, shrugged. “Just offerin’, you don’t gotta-“
“I’ll do it,” Buck said with a shamefaced grin. “But come in quick. We Gray Snakes, we ain’t allowed.”
Damien came into the cell with a scowl. “You gotta take it out when I say, honky,” he said. He gave Buck strong side-eye, and he glared at Knuckle too. “I don’t trust rednecks, and I got a nigga who gonna cut’cha if you nut wit’out payin’.”
He got down on his knees and pulled down Buck’s orange pants first. They were loose-fitting, and Buck wore nasty old white briefs stained brown — not stained with poop, but with dirt because he wore these briefs to wrestle outside in the rain with James Callifrey a couple weeks ago. But the black fellah with the ropy arms, Damien, he looked a little sickly at the briefs before tugging them down. He sneered at Buck’s thick dong, picked it up and put it in his mouth.
“Cost you one more pack to nut in my mouth,” said Damien before his tongue flickered over Buck’s soft cock. He thwacked Buck’s dick on his own cheek with a low scowl. Buck ain’t like the feel of his salt-and-pepper stubble, but he ain’t complain. Damien spat on Buck’s cockshaft. “But if’n that nigga gotta come collect off you, the price is double. So don’t try it.”
Buck snorted and pushed his dick in a little deeper, as he gripped Damien’s ears. He smirked when Damien fought back and slapped his hands away.
“Nah, honky-” Damuien said, but he was cut off by Knuckle thwacking his still-limp dick on Damien’s face. Damien crossly pushed him off with one hand, but Knuckle ignored it. He slapped Damien’s crooked nose with his dick. Damien seethed and said, “Nah, you ugly-ass freak. You ain’t — one at a time, first of all-“
Buck interrupted him like he ain’t notice Knuckle was mollywopping the guy, so Buck was still pistoning his hips and forcing his limp dick into Damien’s mouth, even as Damien spoke crossly.
“You gotta wait yo’ — yo’ turn, freak. I only do — one at a time — ain’t — cain’t fit more — than one at a time — gimme a sec — big fella, I’s — talkin’-” Damien ain’t fight back or even move his head away, he just kept talking as Buck drilled his limp pecker in and out. Buck grinned. Damien said, “I ain’t a punk — so you gotta — listen — and do show — some respec’ — nah, nah — I ain’t-” He gagged suddenly, as Buck’s dick was hard enough to hit the back of his throat. His gag turned into a retch, then Damien paused with both dicks half-hard dancing upon his face before he gagged again, opened his mouth and slurped spit up off Buck’s dong. He hesitated and held back another gag before resuming licking Buck’s dong.
Buck said, “If I pull out, can I nut on ya face?”
Damien shook his head. His tongue slurped up and down Buck’s shaft, which was firming up, hot and throbbing, veiny. He kept his eyes trained on Buck, seemingly ignoring what his tongue was doing entirely. He gripped Buck’s dick at the root and licked it up and down, slathering spit on the entire shaft. He moved quickly and deliberately, like he was completing an assignment to cover Buck’s rod with spit.
Knuckle kept his soft cock on Damien’s face. He liked the feel of a warm body touching it. Every minute or two, Damien slapped Knuckle’s dong away. Damien only did one man at a time. That was a rule, and he was allowed to enforce it. But these two giant enforcers for the Gray Snakes were much bigger than Damien. The smell of both men’s low-hanging balls and Buck’s early precum made Damien’s stomach churn. But he focused on slurping on Buck’s cocktip, getting it good and wet. He hoped to get Buck off quick.
“How much for booty?” Knuckle asked.
“Six packs.” Damien kept stroking Buck with one hand, Buck’s cock resting afront his mouth as he spat accusatorily at Knuckle. His voice was moist because his mouth overflowed with Buck’s creamy prenut. “And I am allowed to pick the position, freak. And-“
“Six packs?!” Buck scoffed. Ain’t nobody gonna pay six packs for some booty. You could get slimy, bony crackhead booty for a half a pack. That was gross, but still… Buck ain’t like overpaying.
“Uh-huh.” Damien put Buck’s dick in his mouth so the cocktip stretched his cheek, while Damien’s tongue teased the side of his shaft. One hand gripped the base of his dick, while the other cupped his balls. He pulled it out just long enough to say, “You gotta provide the lube too, freak.”
Knuckle got a hangdog look on his face like he was required to do it. They’d been locked up for so long with all of Jeffers’s rules that Knuckle got plenty of smokes saved up. He ain’t even paid for almost any of them. He stole them off frightened smaller inmates in gen-pop.
He took a cigarette from the pack he was currently smoking, then added six additional packs to the three packs Buck had stacked up by the door.
As Knuckle collected packs of smokes, Buck whistled, his dick still spewing precum into Damien’s mouth. “Goddamn, you make good money. Perry own ya booty, right?”
Damien nodded. He shimmied down his orange prison pants and drawers without even taking Buck’s cock outta his mouth. He lowered his booty. “Lube up first, freak.” His voice was still moistly muffled by all of Buck’s precum, which he spat onto the floor rather than swallow it. “You can get hard rubbin’ my butt, but I only do one at a time. Wait for ya hillbilly buddy to nut before you stick it in.”

Knuckle ain’t acknowledge that. He rubbed hog fat from the prison kitchen onto his soft dick. The creamy white lard got good and greasy once it warmed up to his body temperature, and he kneeled behind Damien, who sat on his bare ass to be sure Knuckle couldn’t get in it.

“Nah, what’d I say? You gotta wait-” Damien snapped. Buck’s dick bobbed and throbbed in front of his face. “One at a time-” He was cut off by Buck forcing his rod back into Damien’s mouth, which instantly filled with his precum. His hands flailed and clawed at Buck’s powerful chest.
But Knuckle was behind him, ignoring Damien’s protests entirely. He didn’t try to get in Damien’s ass, since Damien was sitting on it, but Knuckle did rub his dick on Damien’s smooth back.
“Can I nut on your back?” Buck asked. He smeared precum all over Damien’s face, as he let Damien take a breath.
Damien looked up at him with a sneer and nodded. “Just not the face. You gotta pay for a moufnut anytime it git on my face, you ugly-ass mothahfuckah,” he said. “My nigga Perry’ll come at’cha hard if you don’t.” He held up Buck’s erect dick with two fingers, then ran his tongue up and down the shaft. That sent a shiver of pleasure up Buck’s spine. Damien spat more precum onto the floor.
“Hey, can you get me hard wit’cha mouth?” Knuckle asked. He didn’t take his eyes off his dick rubbing Damien’s smooth spine. He aimed it lower and lower, trying to get it under Damien’s seated body.
“You whiteboys is fulla questions,” Damien said with a snarl. He slathered spit on Buck’s dick, which he gripped with one hand. He shook his head. “No. You gotta pay if you want me to use my mouf. You gotta pay if you wanna use my butt. Two sep’rate transactions, freak, don’t even try nothin’.” He glared at Buck. “You just playin’ now, hillbilly. I can tell. Blow a nut if’n you gonna blow a nut.”
Buck chuckled, his hefty frame and his fat cock shifting up and down with each laugh. “Nah. I don’t gotta hurry. Make it feel good.” He pushed his dick back into Damien’s reluctant mouth and forced it into his throat until he gagged. “Move ya tongue around, damn…”
Damien squirmed and clawed violently at Buck’s back and asscheeks. Buck ignored that for a few seconds, throwing his head back and moaning as Damien’s throat massaged his cock. Damien sputtered out precum when Buck pulled out.
“Whiteboy mothahfuckah-!”
“Sorry, hoss,” Buck said. “C’mon, you gots to get deep. Perry’d get salty if’n I say you just lickin’ it-“
“Hillbilly mothahfuckah, I ain’t just lickin’ it! I do it damn good, e’ery nigga say I am the goddamn best!” Damien said, a little hoarse and moist with precum. He stroked Buck’s dick one hand. “Don’chu tell Perry no lies. He knows. He knows I does it good.” He paused. “And you ain’t allowed — Jeffers gonna be mad ornery if’n he-” Buck again drilled his dick into Damien’s mouth. Damien ain’t fight back even though he was talking. He just slapped Buck’s chest and tried to relax his throat.
However, his movement resulted in him going from seated to crouching, which revealed his ropy-muscled buttcheeks, and Knuckle took the opportunity to sit Damien on his lap. Knuckle aimed his slightly-hard dick for his butthole, but Damien ain’t cooperate, and Knuckle wasn’t hard enough to wedge it in anyway. Damien’s asscrack was slick with sweat though, and it was tight and warm, so Knuckle humped his dick over the inviting hole. Damien winced but he flexed his buttcheeks and cooperated by moving his asscrack up and down over Knuckle’s rod.
“Hey, Damien, how many dicks you take e’ry day?” Buck asked. He sucked in his breath. He was on the verge of orgasm but trying to delay it. Damien’s tongue sent pangs of pleasure through Buck’s muscular frame.
“Five or six. I-” A little gag escaped from Damien, who didn’t let it stop him from tonguing Buck’e piss-slit. The precum flowed clear and copiously over his face and mouth. He kept a sour look on his face. “I try to get at least five, or Perry get mad at me.”
“How many of that’s up the butt?” Buck asked with a snicker.
Knuckle’s dick was hard now. He smeared more hog fat onto Damien’s asscheek. Its creamy whiteness stood out on his dark brown skin. Damien kept moving his ass up and down — he ain’t enjoy working both men at once, but he wanted to get Knuckle off without taking it up the booty, so Damien humped his asscrack over the length of Knuckle’s shaft. Knuckle showed no reaction that, aside from leaning back and watching Damien move.
“Usually none. Just one or two a week,” Damien said. He gritted his teeth and winced like he got a backache. Buck’s dick spewed precum across his face. Buck was gasping, nearing orgasm when Damien stopped slurping on the cocktip. Knuckle’s cocktip pushed into his luby asshole. Damien sputtered, “Ow, shit, freak! Give a nigga shoutout befo’ you stick it in-“
“Sorry, sorry, I thought you knew it was comin’,” Knuckle said without slowing down. He kept pushing. Damien yelped in pain and grunted.
He tried to soldier on. He even opened his mouth and let Buck’s dick in for a second. But as soon as he tasted his dick, he knew he was seconds away from nutting — the precum was intense and rich, and it flowed copiously over Damien’s face. “Nah, you done whiteman. Shoot it on my back-” He gagged horribly on the taste of cum.
Not wanting to get charged for nutting in his mouth, Buck virtually dove onto Damien. Sitting on Damien’s squawking head so he could hump his back. Damien squealed and clawed at the ground as cum sprayed over his lower back. Buck guffawed.
“Got it on ya, Knuckle,” Buck said with a great belly laugh. “Shit, awwwwwww…” Buck moaned. Another wave of cum jetted out over Damien’s back, and then the next jet missed Damien’s back entirely and instead spurted over Knuckle’s scarred chest. Buck laughed again, still spewing nutjuice onto Damien’s back.
None of that stopped Knuckle, who seemed to barely notice his own belly and crotch now dripped with Buck’s cum. More of his jizz dripped down Damien’s back and butt and helped to lube Knuckle’s dick more. Knuckle pushed it in deeper and deeper, pushing past Damien’s resistance and stretching his butt out good.
From the ground, Damien first gritted his teeth and grunted like he could take it. But after a few seconds, he cried out, “A’ight, nah, nah — freak, stop! I wanna change pos’tions. Damn, shit, damn, ow-!”
Buck pulled off and backed away, still dripping precum as he lazily stroked his limpening pud. He chuckled at Damien’s frenzied complaining. Knuckle held onto Damien’s hips, his dick half in and half out. He did stop when Damien said to, but he ain’t take his dick out. He just rested it there in Damien’s tight hole.
“You sure?” Knuckle said. His chest was ruddy, breathing heavy, but his face remained expressionless. His cock pulsated in Damien’s asshole, which clenched around it.
Damien took shallow breaths like a woman in labor, which made Buck laugh as he swung his limp dick around. Damien got back up on his hands and knees, and he looked behind himself at Knuckle. He tried to crawl away, but any movement made the pain worse, and Perry had taught him well to never stop his man. He could ask his man to stop or tell Perry to get more smokes out of him later, but Damien wasn’t allowed to make him stop.
That was bad customer service.
“Ow, c’mon, I said I is allowed to pick the position, freak!” he growled. “You gotta-” He heaved, as Knuckle again used all of his might to push more in.
“I don’t wanna stop,” Knuckle said, still slowly moving his hips back and forth, just a little bit, not all the way in and out. A good six inches of his dick had still never gone in. Damien was impaled on it. He looked behind himself and shook his head. “If you wanna change positions, just say so.”
“Nah, nah, c’mon, stop, stop-“
“What position do you want?” Knuckle asked. “I’ll do it. You wanna do it standing?”
Damien shook his head. “On my back. On the bunk.”
Knuckle finally stopped moving. “That’s my bunk. I don’t want’cha ass-goop on my bunk.”
“Take it out, freak!” Damien howled. He slammed a fist on the floor. Unable to resist, he tried to crawl away — Perry would beat him if he knew — but Knuckle followed anyway, until Damien was in a corner and couldn’t crawl anywhere else. Still, Knuckle pushed. He had a giant rod, bigger than anything Knuckle had taken in the past. “Nah, on my back! On the bunk!”
“Ssssh, don’t be so loud,” Buck said. “Here, on ya back then, on the floor,” Buck said. He pulled the pillows off Knuckle’s bunk and pushed Damien to lay on them on his back. Damien collapsed in agony.
Knuckle fell with him, squashing him to the floor with his powerful chest. Damien managed to collapse on one pillow, which he clutched like a magic talisman and dug his face into it. Knuckle’s dick sank even deeper into Damien’s ass. Knuckle wrapped his arm around Damien’s head and murmured, “Sorry, sorry, I’ll be done in a sec.”
“Git off me, freak!” Damien shouted. His whole body tensed, as Knuckle slammed into him over and over. But Damien was a pro, and he ain’t fight back too hard.
Knuckle grunted and stopped moving. Cum filled Damien up. He hung his head when it started, and he grimaced. “Ew, shit, man, you grimy as fuck, I can feel it, I can feel you don’t shower-“
“Shuttup,” Knuckle said as Buck laughed. Knuckle was still cumming, his whole body shaking like a dog drying off. Then at last, he was done.
Knuckle rolled over. His dick slipped out of Damien’s ass. “Sorry, man,” he said. “You okay?”
“No, fuck!” Damien crawled away with a cry of pain. “Shit!” He grabbed his nine packs of smokes. “I’mma convince Perry that was worth more, you ain’t follow the rules, whiteboy! You in for some shit!”.
He limped out of the cell, carrying his clothes and nine packs of cigarettes in his hands. Buck held back snickers of laughter, while Knuckle watched Damien go with lidded silence.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Nine

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

Jeffers was released in early March. Knuckle had no idea that was coming, and neither did Buck. It seemed few fellahs in the Gray Snakes knew about it. It threw the whole organization in a tailspin. Jeremy Trudale claimed to be the new leader, but not everybody respected him much. Neither Knuckle nor Buck wanted to get involved — neither were actual Gray Snakes, after all. They were more like affiliates.
Regardless, nobody but Jeffers ever approved of that “no jacking off” rule, so whatever else happened, that was out the door with Jeffers. Nobody much mentioned that at first. The most important priority was choosing a new leader — the Gray Snakes had a shipment of heroin being smuggled in, and somebody was gonna have to take charge to bribe the right guards, disburse the heroin and monitor its sale. Lotta Gray Snakes were giving inklings of a desire to take on Jeremy Trudale, but nobody done make a move yet.
So all the Gray Snakes were on edge, just waiting to see who would get shanked first and who would take charge, who would take possession of the heroin, who would pay for it and make sure none of the fiends used it up. Buck and Knuckle ain’t a part of none of that internal politicking. Neither were to be here that long, and neither wanted to rule over a buncha bikers. So they both kept their head down.
That lasted until Buck came to Knuckle with a proposal. They were lined up to head to the shower. Knuckle wore prison-issue boxers, but Buck was in another pair of filthy briefs. Both carried towels and little plastic baggies of soap.
“Hey, I gots an idea,” Buck said. The line shuffled forward towards the shower. Ten guys were allowed in at once, after ten guys left the shower, counted off by the bored-looking guard at the entrance. “Let’s pick a fellah to pimp out like that Damien homeboy was. We can make a pretty penny off somebody’s booty.”
Knuckle ain’t say nothing. His instinct was to say no. They ain’t have long to go, so picking a punk seemed like a waste of time.
On the other hand, he thought, they could turn some poor bastard’s booty into a mountain of prison smokes that could be converted into cash. Then he and Buck could walk outta here with some real money.
So he shrugged and nodded. “Who?” he asked.
Not that far away was Lance Barrymore, a newly minted Gray Snake who had just arrived. He was young and meaty but not especially big. He nervously waited to shower.
He hated the group showers.
He was crowded among the much larger men, especially that big hairy redneck and the scarface guy. He felt vulnerable. But he was a Gray Snake in good standing, and he was in a cell block controlled by the Gray Snakes. He had been keeping outta the power vacuum in the gang.
The next group of ten were sent into the showers, and Lance was among them, as were Knuckle and Buck. Lance sucked in his breath. The showers were huge and crowded. Some two hundred men filled the space, which was only meant for less than half that. Every couple minutes a small group would filter out, but some men stayed in here for hours — smoking crack or dealing it, or just sitting in lawn chairs and conducting business. The guards ain’t care how long anyone stayed in.
The showerheads were tall pillars that sprayed warm water in a three hundred and sixty degree arc. The group of ten that Lance was in were all Gray Snakes, and they kept together as they went to a mostly unused showerhead. Lance soaped himself up quietly.
His ears pricked up though, because he sensed those two weirdos, the mullet one and the scarred freak, looking at him. His booty shimmered, pale as ivory though most of Lance’s skin was well-tanned. Lance weren’t very big. He was strong enough on the outside — he was athletic, and he worked out, and his job kept him active — but he weren’t big or tough or especially muscular.
Lance’s heart raced. Were they talking about him? Were they worried he would try to take control of the gang? That seemed unlikely, but why else would they be watching him so closely? Lance gulped.
All around him naked men showered. He considered scuppering — he could go to the crowded showerhead a few yards away; that one was dominated by old men and child molesters. Nobody wanted to shower with them.
But that might be perceived as abandoning the Gray Snakes. Part of showering together as a gang was keeping each other safe. And Lance would have to pass a buncha Crips in order to get there. They were sallow and serious black men, showering like soldiers with flat faces, facing outward in an organized circle so there was no getting the drop on any of them.
Lance felt a tight pinch in his backside.
“Oh god, owwwww-!” His screaming was cut off by the redneck, Buck, putting his meaty paw over Lance’s mouth. The other Gray Snakes erupted into a hubbub of laughs and commentary, as Buck pulled Lance towards the pillar showerhead in the center of the Gray Snakes.
Buck and Knuckle were there by the showerhead too, outside the shower spray, and the rest of the Gray Snakes spread out to complete the circle. That way nobody could see Lance — Knuckle and Buck were tall enough that their heads rose above the other Gray Snakes, but Lance was concealed entirely.
Now that Lance was out of the loud shower spray, he could hear the Gray Snakes’ commentary.
“Oh shit, a punk-?”
“Jeremy allow that?”
“He short. He a short punk.”
“Hey, bitch, no screamin’,” Buck said. He was so close to Lance that his voice boomed loudly over the sounds of two hundred men and some twenty showers going at once. His hairy chest was matted to his muscles. “What’s ya name?”
“Laaaaance…” The biting pain in his backside was intense, and Lance realized it was that scarred freak Knuckle behind him, his dick pushing into Lance’s butthole.
“A’ight, Lance, from now on you is our punk,” Buck said, raising his voice so the Gray Snakes could all hear. “That means you gotta make us money.” All Lance could pay attention to was the growing pain in his butthole. He swatted behind himself, where Knuckle’s powerful body gripped his waist and plowed in.
“Whaaaat?” Lance gritted his teeth. “Please, stop, ow-“
“Shut the fuck up,” Buck said and slapped him across the face. “Punks don’t complain. No beggin’, no whinin’.”
“Ow, shit!” All Lance could think about was the pain in his asshole. Knuckle was pounding away at his booty, holding him up when Lance’s knees buckled. A trickle of blood ran down Lance’s leg, but Knuckle ignored it. “OWWWWW!”
He finally stopped begging when Buck gripped Lance’s throat and squeezed. Unable to breathe, Lance’s whole body went limp. Buck let go of his neck and punched him in the belly.
That made all of his muscles go limp at once, as he desperately tried to breathe. Knuckle’s dick rammed all the way in, breaking Lance open and going to ground with him.
“Sssssssshhhhhhiiiiiitttttt!” Lance said, his face slammed into the concrete floor. A massive wave of creamy hot cum filled him up, so deep that all Lance felt at first was the warmth. Then, when Knuckle began to pull his cock out, Lance felt twinges of intense pain and the slimy jizz flowing into him.
He was still loose and gaping, his butt bloody but washed clean by shower water in seconds. Buck slid in before Lance could even think, and the eye-splitting pain began again.
“You understand what to do?” Knuckle asked. He sat down next to Lance like they were having a casual chat. The other Gray Snakes remained in a little circle around the showerhead, blocking Lance and his newly-punked-out booty from the rest of the inmates. Their dicks were right at Knuckle’s eye level, but he ignored that. He asked again, “You understand how to punk, Lance?”
“Ow, I — ow, I don’t — I-” Lance sucked in his breath, unable to think with Buck pounding away at his asshole.
Knuckle grabbed him by the neck. He squeezed lightly, not choking him but definitely getting his attention. “Ignore your asshole. Listen to your assignment,” he said, his voice flat and throbbing in Lance’s ear. “You must jack men off with your mouth and butthole-“
“No-“

More pain exploded in his face, as Knuckle punched him hard, all without any expression on his face. Knuckle said, “Don’t say no to us. You charge one pack for mouth and three for butt for now. Once you get loose, we’ll lower it to two packs for your butt.” Knuckle paused. He slapped Lance. “You hear that?”

Lance gulped and nodded. He gritted his teeth. The sound of Buck’s cavernous chest breathing heavily overwhelmed Lance’s ears, and the blistering pain of Buck’s cock stretching his asshole open made Lance whimper. He lowered his head, unable to think of any possible reaction besides submitting to ensure this ended as soon as possible.
“You live in our cell from now on too,” Buck said. His voice staggered as he reached his orgasm, and he let out a moan. “You sleep on the floor.”
Lance nodded at that too.
The off-kilter flatness of Knuckle’s voice overpowered the showers all around. He said, “Gray Snakes, y’all hear that? We’re paying a third of his take to the organization.” That was generally seen as normal in this prison — not in the Gray Snakes, of course, because all jacking off and all punks were forbidden until this morning, but most gangs required that tax from any members who made money illicitly. The Gray Snakes were paying off guards to look the other away, after all, so the organization demanded its cut.
Plus, the Gray Snakes would make sure Lance worked hard if they were getting a cut.
Lance buried his face in his hands, as he finally felt Buck’s throbbing cock orgasm inside his guts. Cum filled him up. Buck shot a great thick load that spilled out onto the filthy concrete floor, where it was immediately washed down the drain.
Finally, Lance was done. He sprawled out on the floor. “Wait,” he said weakly. He wanted to explain that he was a Gray Snake in good standing. They couldn’t do this to him. But his ass was in such pain that he could think of the words, nor could he think to resist as Knuckle dragged him to the doorway outta the shower.
He left him there on his knees, just a few feet from the guard outside the showers. “Make at least three packs before the end of showers,” Knuckle said.
“Yeah,” Buck added, “And clean ya damn butt up too, don’t come back to the cell with ass-blood running down ya leg.” They both walked out, leaving him there on his knees, ready to earn smokes for them.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Ten

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

Lance Barrymore felt disgusting. Dried cum clung to his cheeks and ear. His legs were weak because he was hungry — Knuckle and Buck took half his food. He had just signed over the money from his prison job too.
“You our punk. That’s like a slave,” Buck said this morning. “So what’s yours is ours.” He got a big grin on his hillbilly face.
Lance’s stomach rumbled as he came to the next cell, where two black men sat in lawnchairs. The thicker one, with a belly, sat in the threshold, while the skinnier one was a bit further back — they switched who got to be further out every night.
Lance winced. “Hi,” he said. “I can jack you off however you want. I’m real good at it.” His voice cracked. The black men laughed and waved him off. “I can deep-throat anything, and you can pound me as hard as you want.”
They again waved him off.
Lance only needed one more pack of cigarettes. If he got one more guy to pay for his mouth, he’d have ten packs to bring back to Knuckle and Buck. They’d let him have a package of ramen before lights-out then.
So he trudged up to the next level. Another pair of black men were in the first cell by the stairs. They sat in lawn chairs hooting and chatting with men in the other cells. They leaned forward as far as they were allowed so they could see the men in lawnchairs doing the same thing at other cells.
“Dance for us, then, bitch,” said the older black man with a scruffy gray beard when Lance approached them with his standard sales pitch. “Lemme see you shimmy.”
The cell erupted in laughter and jeers as Lance did so. He shook his ass at them, dancing the best he could without any music.
“Fine, here.” The older black man tossed two packs of smokes at him from inside the cell.
With a wince and a sigh, Lance picked up the smokes. “I can do it with my mouth damn good,” he said as he pushed past the lawnchair into the cell. “I swear.” He only needed to get one pack tonight, so this two-pack job was extra. Lance thought using his mouth was better than his ass — which was sore already and loose.
But the older black guy just scoffed. He pulled down Lance’s orange prison pants and whistled. “Dance for me more,” he said. He sat on his bunk with his pants around his ankles, limp dick in hand.
Lance shimmied and shook his ass. His pants were around his ankles, so he couldn’t move much, but his ass was bared because he wore boxers with the butt torn outta them. Buck called that “lingerie”.
Both the black guys laughed, the older one slapping his knee and making his dick bounce. He stroked it lazily with one hand, while he motioned for Lance to continue. “Slower,” he said. “Sexier.”
Another wince of humiliation ran up his spine, as Lance did as he was told. He swayed back and forth, so slow it wasn’t even really dancing, but he did twerk his ass at the older black guy while trying to ignore the guffaws of the younger one, who remained by the door.
“Oh shit!” said the younger one with a laugh, speaking to the Bloods in the cell next door. Lance ain’t hear what them other Bloods said, cuz he was in their lotion-scented cell and dancing. “He j’st dancin’ right now. Nah, he dance like a retarded monkey. But he got nice booty. They done rip the back outta his drawers. Yeah, yeah.”
Finally the older one motioned for him to come closer and to sit on it. Lance closed his eyes and did so, sucking in his breath when it entered him. He was loose enough now that he didn’t feel a ton of pain, but it was uncomfortable just the same. He hovered there like he was above a dirty public toilet. The older black man’s knob sat right at the entrance to Lance’s asshole.
“Sit on it,” the older fellah said. When Lance didn’t immediately sink any lower, he gripped Lance’s shoulders and pushed him down.
“Ow, shit!” Lance cried out quietly. Buck would hit him if he knew he had complained, so Lance tried to stay silent. He bit his lip. This guy’s dick wasn’t that big. He could take it. He gritted his teeth and focused on moving his ass up and down.
That rock-hard shaft rubbed between his cheeks. Lance grimaced. He sped up once he felt slimy precum, and he worked his ass up and down despite the intense pressure. He had learned that this was just like using his hand, basically, he was just using his buttcheeks to stroke it.
With a little concentration, he could get a man off lickety-split, even an older fellah like this one. Soon enough, Lance felt a spurt of creamy hot cum jet into his booty, and he pulled off.
“Nah, whiteboy! Shit!” The old man grunted and yelped. He clawed for Lance’s hips, but Lance hurried away and pulled his pants up. The last two jizzwads landed on Lance’s back and his ankle, then he was too far away — he was scurrying out past the younger fellah in the lawnchair — as the older man stroked the last couple drops out. “Fuck you, I’ll complain! I’ll tell Buck you ain’t do it proper!”
But Lance knew Buck wouldn’t care. Buck and Knuckle were going to be released soon. They wanted Lance making money for them as quick as possible, not ensuring customer satisfaction. He’d just tell them he was eager to get to his next “client”.
His ass still smarting, Lance snuck back onto the stairs. He walked very slowly, partially because he was in pain but mainly to waste time. Since he’d made eleven packs of smokes, he just wanted to get back to the cell. Knuckle and Buck would tell him he should keep walking the beat, but his assignment was only to come back to the cell with ten packs, and his pockets were full of eleven — he’d gone the extra mile.
He had no sooner made it to the landing and breathed a sigh of relief when the door from the level below opened. It was Officer Grinharder — so called because he smiled all the time.
“Barrymore? That you?” He came up to the landing Lance was on, stretching his legs.
“Yes, sir,” Lance said. “I was just returning to my cell, sir.”
“You ain’t slackin’, is ya? I’d have to tell Buck,” Grinharder said.
“No! I just made a couple packs off this level. I was gonna try the Latin Kings before lights-out. How much time do I have?”
He looked at his watch. “You got nine minutes. Don’t worry about the Latin Kings, I’ll do it. My wife is at her sister’s,” Grinharder said. “I like the empty house. It’s nice to have the whole place to myself. But I ain’t got no female to get my nut off.” He dropped Lance’s pants and handed him a tub of kool-aid powder — to improve the taste of toilet wine — that’s what the guards usually paid instead of cigarettes. Kool-Aid was cheap on the outside and easy to smuggle in. “I got the cherry kind, cuz Buck said he likes that.” He wrinkled his nose. “Ew, your back is covered in nut.”
“I know.”
Grinharder didn’t even let him get into a comfortable position before he plowed into his asshole. His dick had been hard all day because he was used to his wife giving up the pussy most nights. He sighed like scratching a long-bothersome itch when his dick got into Lance’s well-lubed hole.
“Shit, man, I gotta admit, I kinda like a slack man’s booty,” he said with a chuckle. “Grip the wall.” Lance did as he was told, jutting his ass back. He bit back tears. Officer Grinharder was already ramming his whole dick in and out. “There you go, there you go, oooooh, fuck…”
At least this one was over quick, and his dick was pretty small. Jism again filled Lance, and it trickled down one thigh. He grimaced and expelled Officer Grinharder’s cock as soon as he felt cum, squeezing it like a disobedient turd. Grinharder ain’t realize that sensation was Lance forcing him to stop, so he just sighed and moaned with pleasure as his cock plopped out with a satisfyingly moist sound.
“How much time till lights out?” Lance asked. He slowly pulled his pants back up.
Officer Grinharder blushed. “You got six minutes to get back to your cell. Did I blow a nut in three minutes?” He laughed at himself. “Damn, I must really miss my wife.” He kept muttering to himself as he tucked his dirty dick away and headed off.
Lance limped in agony down the stairs to his own cell. Buck sat in a lawnchair, while Knuckle paced behind him. When he got there, Lance handed over his eleven packs of cigarettes and kool-aid packet.
“I got eleven,” he said. “I did better than I was even supposed to, right? I did good-“
“You done fine,” Buck said, “But you’re early.” Buck handed the eleven packs to Knuckle, who added them to the stacks of smokes they ain’t yet convert to cash. Buck put the kool-aid by the bucket hooch. “You got four minutes.” He pointed down the row of cells. “If you don’t take one more load, we gonna stretch you tonight. Best get a wiggle on.”
Lance bit back tears, but he went down the line of cells. His legs were weak. He felt jizz drying there.
“Jack you off for a pack of smokes. C’mon, I swallow real good,” he said to the tubby black man he first passed. He just grimaced and shook his head, so Lance continued on.
“Hey, I only got a half-pack,” said the burly silver-haired black man in the fourth cell down. He held up a full pack of smokes, but then he emptied half of it into the palm of his hand and he showed them to Lance. “What’ll you do for that?”
“I’ll get you started,” Lance said. That meant he had to jack the man off with his mouth, but he would pull off when he tasted precum then finish the customer off with his hand.
The man nodded. He was Rennie, and he had a fat ugly cock. He let Lance put the tip in his mouth, but then Rennie gripped him by the head so he could hump his throat. As far as Rennie was concerned, that was the whole point.
Lance gagged.
Rennie sighed and closed his eyes. A smirk appeared on his face. He got good leverage on Lance and was able to pound his throat so hard Rennie’s balls slapped on Lance’s chin. Rennie liked hearing that thwack-thwack sound, and he liked the feel of Lance’s struggling-to-breathe nose squashed into Rennie’s hairy crotch.
When he tasted precum, Lance smacked Rennie in the ass to tell him to let go, but Rennie didn’t.
“Shut the fuck up,” Rennie murmured.
He pumped his hips, forcing his dick all the way down Lance’s throat. He sighed grandly, gripping Lance’s wriggling head to keep it still. He used it like a sex toy, keeping his cum-spewing shaft deep in Lance’s gullet.
Great gobs of jizz filled Lance’s belly. He squirmed, but he ain’t fight back, aside from gripping Rennie’s asscheeks instinctively. Though it was painful to take a load deep in his belly — and Rennie ain’t pay for it — Lance preferred that to tasting it and then swallowing it.
He gasped for air when Rennie finally pulled out. His limp dick throbbed and leaked spit, dangling between Rennie’s legs.
“You gotta pay — the rest of — that pack,” Lance said between gasps, wiping his face off. “You didn’t pay — for me to — swallow it.”
Renny scoffed. “You was s’posed to pull off. Not my fault.” He tucked his dick away.
“You wouldn’t let me!” Lance said. He put his hands on his hips and whimpered as he wiped his face off and then pulled his pants up. “You have to pay-“
“Nah, punk,” Rennie said. He lit a black’n’mild.
With a harsh frown and a stabbing pain in his sensitive butthole, Lance limped away. Guards were announcing lights-out over the loudspeaker, so he would be in trouble if caught out of his cell.
When he got back there, Buck still sat in his lawnchair at the threshold, while Knuckle rubbed lotion onto Buck’s back. Lance sniffled and explained what happened with Rennie. He wiped more cum that was trickling into his eye — he didn’t even know where that cum came from? Was that Rennie’s? Or had someone else cum in his hair earlier and it now leaked down his forehead? His voice was weak and wobbly. “That’s why I only made a half-pack. He’s s’posed to pay the rest. I tried to get a whole pack, and he did it, he did cum in my mouth-“
Buck hit him. “You s’posed to collect it, jackass.”

Knuckle ain’t say a thing. He just left the cell and went straight to Renny’s. The guards ain’t come by yet to make them go into their cells for the night, so Renny was still in his lawnchair. Knuckle punched him square in the jaw and took the half-pack of cigarettes that remained.

Renny was rehearsing how he would argue when Buck came to collect, and he ain’t expect Knuckle’s silent ass to be the one to come to him, so he ain’t even come up with something to say before Knuckle wordlessly decked him.
Blood spurted from Rennie’s nose, and he fell limp, sprawled out on the threshold of his cell. Knuckle found the half-pack of smokes in Rennie’s pocket, then grabbed another full pack as well.
“Next time, pay it right,” Knuckle said. He left Rennie there to crawl to his feet and get back to his cell before a guard saw him. Knuckle was less concerned — Officer Grinharder was the one who would check this cell block first, and he was on Buck’s payroll, so Knuckle wouldn’t get in trouble for being outta his cell.
He returned with a pack and a half. He and Buck had accumulated a big pile of cigarettes to sell — the Latin Kings would gladly convert them to dollars. Knuckle kept a running tally of the smokes they had acquired, and he was wondering now if selling them all in one batch to the Latin Kings was truly ideal. Some black guys paid extra for menthols, for example, so maybe they should separate out the menthols and sell them to the Bloods, Knuckle thought.
But when he walked in, Knuckle stopped short at the sight of Lance gasping, Buck behind him ramming his butt. Buck’s big hairy torso took up most of the cell. His eyes were closed, a grin on his face as his shoulders shuddered.
“Owwwww!” Lance cried out, as Buck filled him with cum. Buck’s furry chest was shiny with sweat, which dripped down his body. Knuckle put the new pack and a half with the other smokes.
By then, Buck was pulling outta Lance, and Lance sucked in his breath, closed his eyes and readied himself for Knuckle. “C’mon, guys, I made a whole pack. Two packs, really,” he said, motioning to what Knuckle had brought. “I did what you said…”
Knuckle took his place behind Lance and plowed in next, before Lance’s asshole could tighten up. He was damn loose nowadays, gaping widely. It was in some ways worse than a tight intact booty, but Knuckle kinda liked it this way too — it took little effort, like fucking a nasty slut. It ain’t as nice as a virgin, but it was so much easier.
Officer Grinharder came to the door to shut it then, just as Knuckle was about to blow a nut. He muttered, “Nasty fuckin’ convicts” at the sight of Knuckle ramrodding Lance. Grinharder ain’t leave the cell door though, like he was watching a trainwreck he couldn’t look away from.
As another wad of jism flowed into Lance, he looked up at Officer Grinharder’s smiling face. “Help me…” Lance murmured softly. That could be counted as “snitching”, so he tried to be quiet.
But Knuckle was engrossed in orgasming into Lance’s slack ass, while Buck was washing his dick off in the sink. Neither paid any attention to Lance. Officer Grinharder ignored him too though, sneering at the disgusting sight of Knuckle’s scarred body finishing off in Lance’s booty.
Then he turned around and left, the cell door slamming shut and locking behind him. Lance grimaced, his ass empty now. He raced to wipe up cum with a wad of toilet paper, lest Buck complain that he was leaking a mess all over the floor.
Then Lance gingerly wiped himself clean the best he could. He tried not to make any noise, lest Buck or Knuckle go at him again. They both drank bucket hooch talked — or rather, Buck talked a lot, and Knuckle barely said a word — while Lance settled down on the floor.
They talked about making money in here and the best way to convert those cigarettes and kool-aid packets, plus some other contraband that would be valueless on the outside, into dollars. They had a half-ready bucket of hooch, a bunch of empty bottles, a sleeve of red plastic cups, poppers and anchovies, whipped cream canisters, a lifelike drawing of Jessica Alba, five extra pillows, a shower curtain and incriminating photographs of Officer Manboobs. All that was valuable, but it ain’t easy to determine who would value them each the most. Knuckle in particular was insistent that he leave here with as much money as possible.
Lance quietly laid on his belly to avoid causing any more pain in his tender ass. Soon, he thought, these two would be gone, and he could find a way back into the Gray Snakes’ good graces.
Or so Lance hoped.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Eleven

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

Knuckle had offered Teddy a free fuck of any of the Gray Snakes’ prostitutes. Knuckle was allowed a free fuck because that was a perk of doing time on the Gray Snakes behalf (the bare-knuckle bout he was arrested for was put on by the Gray Snakes). Knuckle was willing to give the lay up to Teddy. But Teddy refused.
He was just glad Knuckle had made it out of prison in one piece.
So after Knuckle got his free fuck from a bad-ass biker prostitute, he came by Teddy’s place. He was going to stay there for a few days, since that’s where his belongings were anyway, until he rented a place of his own.
“When I get drunk,” Knuckle said as soon as Teddy shut the door behind him. “You can do whatever you want to me. Ramrod my butt if you want. Your dick ain’t big enough to hurt. I’ll get drunk enough to pass out cold. I ain’t been able to get very drunk in prison.” He undressed, as Teddy made them both a drink.
“Really?” Teddy handed Knuckle a drink, then started sipping his own.
But Knuckle took the drink, chugged the whole thing, then grabbed the bottle and chugged from that. “I just wanna get drunk,” he said when he was done, rum spilling past his lips and wetting his shirt. “You sure you don’t wanna fuck a slut? I can get a Gray Snakes bitch like that.” He snapped his fingers. “She gonna be as butch as a baseball bat, not like one of Mistuh Gregarian’s ladies. She be a biker bitch, likely.” He chugged again from the rum.
“No, no, I don’t, uh, I’m sure she’d be very… No thanks,” Teddy said. “I’m saving myself for marriage.” Knuckle cradled his belly like he was gonna be sick, but he took another swig from the bottle anyway. Teddy said, “Don’t rush yourself, you’ve got all night. I’m sure your tolerance has gone down.”
Knuckle nodded, but he already looked blitzed. He leaned back on the couch.
Teddy unzipped his jeans and pulled Knuckle’s dick out. He’d fucked a ho a few hours ago, so it still smelled rancid of old pussy, plus Knuckle hadn’t showered in days, so his ball-stench was intense. Teddy put the tip in his mouth.
“I ain’t shuh….” Knuckle mumbled, trying to take his dick away. He wanted to explain to Teddy that his dick had been in his bitch’s asshole a couple times since his last shower, but he was incomprehensible, and Teddy didn’t care anyway.

He gobbled down Knuckle’s dick. It took awhile to get hard since he had cum this morning — in Lance’s asshole — and then again in a biker bitch’s pussy a few hours ago, plus Knuckle was drunk enough that his dick flopped around in Teddy’s mouth for a few minutes. Teddy didn’t mind a bit. He enjoyed playing with a limp dick and savoring its funky, sweaty taste.

Finally Knuckle’s manhood firmed up, and it leaked precum into his mouth. Teddy smacked it upon his face. He thought Knuckle was passed out already, but when he looked up, Knuckle was bleary-eyed looking at him. He had a faint smile on his flat face.
“Hmmmm… Shigggarette…” Knuckle murmured. He lit a smoke. It cleared his mind a little, so he could talk. “I had a fine-ash bitsh in prissshon, Teddy.” He chuckled. “You’d-a liked him. Till me and Buck wreckt him.” He sighed and exhaled a long plume of smoke.
“Really? A real prison bitch?” Teddy asked with a guilty grin. “So you, like, made him turn tricks?”
Knuckle nodded. He opened up the duffel bag he had brought. He had to lean over to pick it up, which he managed to do without letting his cock pop out of Teddy’s mouth again. He withdrew a thick stack of cash. He dropped it at Teddy’s feet. “Here. That’s what we made off him.”
Teddy looked up at him. “What? You’re giving it to me. All this?”
With just a little nod, Knuckle slipped his dick back into Teddy’s mouth. Teddy tried to say something else, but Knuckle held his head in place. Knuckle shrugged. “It’s less than it looks. It’s all small bills.”
Teddy tried to say that it was too much, that Knuckle didn’t need to do that for him. But Knuckle was gently humping his throat still, and the taste of precum was strong, so all Teddy could do was swallow and savor it.
The wad of cash turned out to be seven hundred dollars. Knuckle and Buck had split fourteen hundred dollars — not just from pimping out Lance. It also came from smuggling in porn, brewing bucket hooch and extorting protection fees from newmeat, plus they sold Lance to the Crips on their last morning. He was pretty well used-up by then, his asshole so slack he couldn’t walk straight, but the Crips didn’t mind crowding into a ruint butthole.
Teddy was still recounting the cash to be sure he got the correct total, because it was hard to count with Knuckle’s cock spilling precum into his mouth. But then all of a sudden, Knuckle spewed a thick jizzwad into Teddy’s mouth, and he moaned sleepily.
It was a shock, so Teddy choked and spat most of it out. He dropped the cash mid-count and resumed stroking Knuckle through his orgasm. Knuckle’s muscles all flexed as he filled Teddy’s belly with creamy seed. Knuckle groaned again, but his eyes were closed.
“Hmmm… Your cum tastes good,” Teddy said softly, checking whether Knuckle was awake.
Even as a few more drops of jizz spilled into Teddy’s mouth, Knuckle began snoring. Teddy licked up every bit of cum he could find.
Then Teddy stood and kissed Knuckle on the lips. He didn’t respond. Teddy kissed him again, his tongue pushing into Knuckle’s mouth. “You okay, buddy?”
Knuckle nodded, but then laid down on his side on the couch. He tottered drunkenly and nearly fell off the coach, then climbed down to the floor. He lifted his head when Teddy got him a pillow. Knuckle laid there stark-naked on his back. Soon he was snoring, as Teddy re-counted the cash more carefully and played with Knuckle’s limp wang.
Finally, Teddy got on his knees and touched Knuckle’s cheek with his dick. “Knuckle? You awake?” He slipped his cocktip into Knuckle’s mouth. It was wet and warm, and Teddy moaned. He instantly roared to full erection.
Teddy’s fingers massaged Knuckle’s cheeks and throat, working him loose. Knuckle kept snoring when Teddy’s dick didn’t go too deep in his throat, but when Teddy really got it in there, Knuckle’s snore turned into a choking sound. Each one made his throat clench around Teddy’s dick and was followed by a big ball of spit leaking from his mouth.
“Sorry, you okay?” Teddy said a couple times, but Knuckle was sound asleep. “You okay, Knuckle?”
Knuckle’s pecs gleamed with his spit and Teddy’s precum, and thick tendrils of those fluids connected Teddy’s twinky little body to Knuckle’s scarred face. After a few more chokes, Knuckle’s neck relaxed.
That meant Teddy could get his whole dick in, until his balls rested on Knuckle’s chin. Knuckle’s square jaw worked up and down a little as though trying to snore, but all that came out was a moist gurgling sound. The movement resulted in his tongue caressing Teddy’s shaft.
“Oh god, fuck yeah, oh god, thanks, Knuckle…” Teddy moaned, leaning on Knuckle’s massive head as he pumped a load down his unconscious throat.
Teddy filled Knuckle’s gullet with his jizz, and then all at once, Knuckle’s muscles tensed, and he vomited up Teddy’s dick. “Oh sorry,” Teddy hastened to say as he pulled off. Knuckle blank, bleary eyes were wide open.
But Knuckle just covered his mouth with one hand, retched and tottered drunkenly to the bathroom. It wasn’t far away, and the door was open. He vomited right into the toilet.
“Sorry, Knuckle. Sorry!” Teddy said a couple times in between heaves.
“Nuh-urry ‘out it…” Knuckle murmured as he leaned over the toilet bowl. “That wasssh the boooze.”
“Really?”
Knuckle nodded. He slumped over, unconscious again. His naked body wrapped around the commode.
But this time, his muscular asshole was accessible. He was crouched at first, leaning on the toilet bowl. Teddy sat down behind him and massaged his back.
“You done throwing up, buddy?” Teddy asked. But Knuckle didn’t respond. So Teddy pushed his limp dick into Knuckle’s asshole. He had cum just minutes ago, so he was still totally soft. But Knuckle’s butt was warm and inviting, and in his crouched position, it was easily accessible and stretched open.
So as Teddy groped Knuckle’s unconscious muscles, he got hard again and instantly slipped it in. Knuckle let out a little grunt when Teddy got in.
He wasn’t intact, Teddy noticed. He didn’t feel much resistance. He moaned into the meat of Knuckle’s back as his dick slipped right in.
His butt clenched tightly around his dick, while Teddy worked his dick up and down. Intense pleasure overwhelmed him, and his gentleness gradually diminished as Knuckle didn’t respond, aside from some instinctual flinching at first.
With a load moan, Teddy shot a massive wad deep into him. Though he had already cum not long ago, Teddy still managed to fill Knuckle up. Since Knuckle was crouched and slumped over the toilet, all Teddy’s jizz immediately spilled out onto Teddy’s crotch and the floor between Knuckle’s feet.
Knuckle’s muscles were soft, relaxed as could be, though his body jerked every few seconds with Teddy’s dick in his butt. Teddy lightly massaged his shoulders.
“Thanks, Knuckle,” Teddy said. He didn’t pull his dick out. He just wanted to let it marinate in there a little while. He let it soften in Knuckle’s body, as Teddy leaned against his face against Knuckle’s back and groped Knuckle’s firm, scarred shoulders. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Four

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

On Friday night, two bouncers worked after nine o’clock. One worked inside, the other worked the door. Tonight, Knuckle kept the peace inside the bar. He preferred working the door. Inside, there was too much going on, too many spinning plates to take care of, lights flashing on and off, music booming boisterously, waitresses coming and going and dancers in and out of the champagne room and the dressing room and the back closet where they snorted drugs with men. Men ain’t allowed to touch the dancers, but the dancers could touch the men and even put the men’s hands wherever they wanted. Men ain’t allowed to be drunk, but they was allowed to get drunk. Men ain’t allowed in the back unless a dancer was escorting them to the champagne room. Inside the bar was a night stuffed with inconsistencies and unpredictable decisions. Knuckle hated it.
Not that any of that showed on his face. He was placid and firm, and his staggering stare stopped baddies from trying any tricks.
Knuckle stood by the bar, arms across his chest, legs slightly spread. He ain’t put on a tough face like the other bouncers, like Chuy, who worked the door, and he ain’t put on his smiling-brah face like Davon or his burly-daddy face like Wayne.
Conversation was subdued when Knuckle looked over the bar, and nobody sat at the tables nearest him.
Sanders Clampett sat closest to him. He was a regular, a middle-aged black man who often chatted with Teddy. He liked a couple of the girls enough to stare mouth agape every time one came near, and the girl he fancied most was Lace Laceright. She was big, buxom, heavily tattooed.
Tonight, she waitressed, so Sanders nursed his beer and flirted with her every time she passed him.
“Hey, baby, love ya top,” Sanders said when she came to the bar with orders from a table. It was obvious he been brainstorming ways to start a conversation with her. He flashed a grin at her.
“Thanks, sugah…”
“Hey, baby, you busy tonight?”
“Sure am, sugah…”
“Hey baby, you look thirsty. Wanna drink?”
“Hmm, I’d love a Sweetlips Sour,” she said. That was a mostly-water cocktail that the girls were encouraged to order. They got a bonus for it. Teddy made it for her, with the extra shot of tequila Lacey Laceright always requested.
As she bent over the bar to take it, Sanders looked at the tattoos on her back. “You got a redhead whiteboy tattooed on you, sweetums. That ya boy?” It was on her left shoulder. Teddy had noticed it too, but he’d never asked after it. Lacey Laceright had a lot of tattoos.
“That’s Skinny Malinky. He’s from a children’s book I like,” she said. She giggled and took a sip from her Sweetlips Sour. “Gotta take that table’s order, sugah.” She kissed Sanders on his cheek. “Thanks…”
“Hmmm… Hmmm…” Sanders let out a little moan and licked his lips when she kissed him, but then she was gone.
That night, hours later, Teddy was again closing down the bar. Arthur the bouncer at the door walked the girls to the parking lot, while Knuckle drank at the bar. Knuckle’s broad shoulders stretched his too-tight shirt. He gulped from the whiskey drink Teddy made him, so Teddy made him another one.
When Lacey Laceright walked by, her purse in hand, Knuckle looked at her and said, “The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids.”
Lacey Laceright and Teddy both looked at him with questioning eyes. Teddy stayed shocked — both by the bizareness of Knuckle’s words and the fact that he spoke without a direct question to respond to — but Lacey Laceright’s eyes lit up.
“Yes, oh my god, you’ve read that, Knuckle?!”
He nodded. “I read it a long time ago. I ai’t recognize the name when you said it, but I remember it…” He blushed and took a step towards her. “I like your tattoo a lot. Ma’am.”
She patted him on the chest and said, “You’re like maybe the third person I’ve ever met who’s read that. Thanks, sugah, have a good night.” And she walked out. She didn’t wait for Knuckle to escort her to her car, and Knuckle’s knees were weak, his teeth nervous, so it didn’t occur to him to go.
Teddy was impressed. That was the most personal thing Knuckle done ever said to anyone in Lipsweet, and it was the nicest any of the dancers done ever treat him. Knuckle hurried into the back — he was still living in the backroom next to the gym.
But he didn’t go straight there.
He went down the corridor behind the dance room, and he checked in the utility closets. He looked in the alley out back and behind the dumpster. He went to the champagne room and to the private spot where you could peep into the champagne room. He finally went into the “pantry” — that was what they called the room full of unopened liquor.
And there was Ernie the janitor. He was sweeping, singing softly to himself.
Ernie was in the pantry in hopes some shelf might be unlocked. He done tried them all — he did that every night because once, two years ago, he’d nabbed an entire shelf of fancy tequila that way. He’d been drunk for a month straight.
But when he heard someone in the hall, he got to sweeping. He assumed it was Teddy the bartender, here to get a new bottle of something, and Ernie needed an excuse to be in here. So he swept the floor of the tiny closet.

And he looked nonchalant at the sight of Knuckle. Ernie ain’t care about Knuckle — sure, he was ugly, even for a honky, and he was weird. But Ernie was a crackhead who done spent years behind bars. He done met more ugly, weird honkies than normal men. Knuckle was quiet, and he ain’t never told nobody nothing, so Ernie ain’t pay him no mind.

So Ernie shrugged and stopped pretending to sweep when he saw it was Knuckle. “Bottles is all locked up good,” he said. “Sometimes up at the bar there’s some rail liquor that-“
But Knuckle paid not a lick of attention to Ernie’s words. He strode into the tiny closet, shut the door behind himself and pulled down Ernie’s loose-fitting jeans. His other hand was in his pants, stroking his rock-hard dick.
“Hey! Honky-ass bitch!” Ernie yelped. “Git-“
But then Knuckle ripped Ernie’s tight white briefs apart to bare his bony asscheeks. Ernie squirmed and dropped the broom, then tried to pick it up to use it to fend off the giant bouncer behind him.
If it ain’t happen so fast, Ernie woulda realized bending over to pick up the broom was a bad idea. His yelp turned into a howl as Knuckle’s cock sank into his loose asshole.
“Shit, honky! Quit it! You gotta use some damn lube!” Ernie panted and clawed at Knuckle’s powerful chest behind him.
“Sssssh.” Knuckle ain’t get why Ernie was fighting him, but he ain’t care, he just sunk his dick in deeply. Ernie was a crackhead and a prison punk, and Mr. Gregarian was always making Knuckle cornhole him — any time he saw Knuckle (or any bouncer) with a stiffy, he told them to cornhole Ernie. Mr. Gregarian was worried a horny bouncer would get fresh with the dancers. Mr. Gregarian also found Knuckle just as creepy and offputting as everyone else, so he sometimes pretended to think Knuckle had a hardon to have an excuse to tell him to go away, to cornhole Ernie, so Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t have to endure Knuckle’s intense silence.
“Why you gotta rip my drawers?” Ernie said through gritted teeth. He spread his legs the best he could, and he grabbed the bottle of lube he kept in here. He still wore his underwear, but Knuckle done ripped the back of it in half to bare his butthole.
No answer was forthcoming. Knuckle grabbed Ernie by his knappy-ass hair, and he held on tight. That had the effect of making Ernie struggle with the lube — Knuckle ain’t trying to stop Ernie from lubing up, he done simply forgot that that was normal.
By the time Ernie got his hand down to his backside to smear some lube on, Knuckle was already pumping him full of cum. Great creamy gobs of it jazzed into Ernie’s butthole with such sudden energy that Ernie jerked and twitched.
His dick slid out. A couple cumwads sprayed over Ernie’s dark, gray-haired buttcheeks and dripped down his ropy thighs.
Knuckle sighed and pulled his rod with one hand. He drained the last couple drops of jizz out and flung them onto Ernie’s legs.
Ernie scowled and slipped away. “You a shit, honky,” he said. He wiped cum off his butt and ropy thighs. “Goddamn…” he pulled his pants up, torn briefs as well, and walked away muttering to himself. “Crazy-ass honky mothahfuckah…”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter One

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

It was a quiet night at Lipsweet, but Teddy was terrified. That was because the peace was kept by the bouncer Knuckle, and Knuckle was terrifying.
Teddy worked the bar at Lipsweet, a rough-edged strip club on the outskirts of Martinsburg, West Virginia. Knuckle was the bouncer there. Like all the bouncers at Lipsweet, Knuckle was big and strong and tough. Unlike the other bouncers at Lipsweet, Knuckle was also badly scarred, bizarre and scary. He was scary-looking enough that nobody tried anything while Knuckle was on duty. Nobody groped the dancers. Nobody tried to get free drinks. Nobody got loud or obnoxious. Nobody picked fights.
So it was a quiet night at Lipsweet.
It was hard to finger exactly what was scary about Knuckle. Part of it was obvious: his badly scarred face, with a thick cheek scar that gave him a permanent sinister smile visible from one angle, a burn scar that spilled like lava from his shoulder to the side of his face, a long beheading-type scar on his neck, a cut running from his sideburn to his forehead as though an eye was almost sliced open and a constellation of pinprick scars and marks all over his bare arms when he wore a sleeveless shirt.
And aside from the scars, Knuckle glowered and stared with flatness, his face unreadable, his voice low and growling, without emotion, and a lot of what he said was just plain weird or incomprehensible. Nobody liked talking to him.
One benefit of Knuckle working was that folks always left promptly at closing time. The other bouncers had to drag the drunks and the sticky-peepers away from the dancing ladies. There were usually a couple brawls — not serious, as anyone left by then was too drunk to fight effectively, but most nights, somebody refused to leave.

Not when Knuckle worked the door. He gave one glowery look at the last couple drunks, and they hightailed it outta there. The bar was empty before Teddy even put the pre-sliced limes away.

After that, the dancers and waitresses left one by one. Knuckle escorted each of them to their cars in the parking lot. In between that, he sat silently at the bar and downed a drink Teddy poured for him, while Teddy added up the day’s receipts and shut the register down for the night.
He was always nervous on a Knuckle night, so Teddy was glad when Knuckle disappeared. Teddy finished with the receipts, totaled up the cash register and locked the booze cabinet. Then he poured himself a cheap drink of whiskey, soda water and the last of the apple juice — the only juice in an opened bottle besides cranberry juice, which Teddy didn’t drink this late because it would keep him up peeing. He was past the point in his life where he could drink cranberry juice late at night.
Before leaving though, Teddy went in the back to do a final check — to make sure the dancers were all gone, that none of them had been attacked by a “boyfriend” in their dressing room, that no drunks were passed out in the bathroom, etc.
Plus he was curious where Knuckle went. Lipsweet had a large back area, including dressing rooms, champagne rooms, a locker room and gym for the bouncers, a couple offices and storage spaces for the Gregarian family (who owned Lipsweet) and a locked warehouse that Teddy was pretty sure was full of guns. He didn’t ask about that door though.
“Hello? Knuckle?” Teddy called out before the flickering hall light turned on. The bathroom was deserted. The dressing room was empty — the dancers had left it a pigsty, with clothes and makeup detritus strewn about — Mr. Gregarian was gonna get het up about that if he saw it, Teddy thought.
But there were no signs of Knuckle. So Teddy ought to just go home. He was only supposed to check for drunks passed out by the toilets, and he’d done that. Now he could go home.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more Teddy wondered about Knuckle. Why was he so weird? Why did he act like that? Where did he go? Knuckle had come in after escorting Caitlin Smiles to her car — she’d called him an “ugly ape”, and Teddy distinctly remembered Knuckle coming back in after that; he’d finished his drink at the bar, and then he’d come into the back as though to escort another dancer to the parking lot. But Caitlin was last to leave, so there were no more dancers.
Knuckle was in the gym.
Teddy scampered to hide next to the door into the gym so Knuckle wouldn’t see him. He didn’t know why; Teddy was allowed to be here. Knuckle was just off-putting and odd, and Teddy’s first reaction was to avoid talking to him. Teddy stayed beside the doorway into the tiny gym.
Mystery solved, he thought. Knuckle was working out. That wasn’t so strange. Mr. Gregarian put the gym behind Lipsweet so the bouncers would use it. Knuckle was doing bicep curls. It was a little weird to work out at four o’clock in the morning, but that was hardly the weirdest thing about Knuckle.
The “gym” was a glorified closet with a couple weight machines and a treadmill in it, and he was on the bowflex in the center of the room. His big fleshy arms were sturdy, dotted with sweat. On his left bicep was that burn scar whose edges stretched up onto his neck and cheek, and since he had taken off his button-down shirt to reveal a raggedy wifebeater, Teddy could see now how big it was. He had been very badly burned at some point, it seemed.
There was a bandage on his side, near his back. It looked fresh — from tonight? — because it was still pale white and clean around the edges but soaked in crimson right above the wound. He must have struggled to put the bandage on, because it only partially covered the wound. Where it stretched onto his back, the bandage didn’t quite cover it. That made sense, because Knuckle was so muscular and thick-chested that he probably couldn’t reach that section of his lower back.
“The dancers is all gone,” Knuckle said. His voice was grim, flat, emotionless, like a deflated balloon, but scratchy like his lungs were made from sandpaper. It sounded painful for him to speak, and his voice made Teddy’s hair stand on end.
Why did he say that? Nobody else was in the room. It took Teddy a few seconds to realize Knuckle said that to him. Knuckle knew he was there.
“The dancers is all gone,” Knuckle said again with stopping his bicep curls. “I made sure they left okay.”
Teddy went into the gym-room then, since apparently hiding hadn’t worked. Teddy was just a bartender — he wasn’t in charge of ensuring Knuckle escorted the dancers to their cars, boyfriends or johns, but Knuckle had said that as though proving to Teddy he had done his job. It wasn’t even Knuckle’s job — Mr. Gregarian never said the bouncers had to do it. The other bouncers generally only did it if the girls said they were worried about a stalker. Teddy said, “Oh. Okay. Cool. Thanks, Knuckle. I just wanted to make sure no one was in the backrooms. I gotta lock up.”
“Yes.” Knuckle kept doing bicep curls. The bandage came unstuck from his bare side, which was slick with sweat. He didn’t seem to clock it. The bandage dangled from his muscular back.
What on earth did “yes” mean? Teddy hadn’t asked a question. See, this is why, Knuckle, everyone thinks you’re creepy. Teddy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the thick scar bisecting his neck. Did Knuckle survive getting his throat slit?
“I, uh… Okay. You have your key, right? So you can leave-“
“Yes.”
There was a long pause. Teddy normally liked the bouncers and their muscles. He often rubbed their shoulders when they were done with their shift.
But not Knuckle.
Not that Knuckle didn’t have nice muscles. Mr. Gregarian only hired large men with powerful bodies as bouncers. Knuckle was a muscle-hound and tough enough to have done years in prison. His shoulders were as thick as volleyballs.
A weak sigh came from Teddy’s chest. “Let me help you with that bandage. What happened?” Teddy said. He felt bad about Knuckle apparently unable to take care of his own injury. Teddy inhaled the gloriously zesty scent of Knuckle’s workout sweat.
“A knife.”
What about the knife, Knuckle? Did it come alive and stab you? Did you fall on it? Did Freddie Krueger attack you in your dreams last night?
But Teddy didn’t ask those questions. He went back to the bar to get a first aid kit. When he returned to the gym, Knuckle was still weight-lifting, like he didn’t think Teddy was going to come back to help.
“Who stabbed you? When?” Teddy asked as he disinfected the cut. It didn’t look like Knuckle had cleaned it. He had just slapped a bandage halfway on the wound. Why? What on earth was the point of that? Dried blood had trickled down the side of his back and stained his workout shorts, which looked to be decades old — the kind of basketball shorts they wore when professional basketball players were mostly white. The shorts were too short by modern standards. Knuckle looked ridiculous in them.
And now, they were blood-stained. Knuckle had cleaned off the blood on his skin, so he knew the shorts were bloody. Why hadn’t he changed them?
And this is why the dancers think you’re a creep, Teddy thought but didn’t say. You’ve been working this whole shift, presumably, wearing blood-stained shorts.
He had to admit the scent of Knuckle’s sweat made his dick twitch. He didn’t mind the extensive burn scar on his shoulder, neck and cheek either. It wasn’t classically handsome, of course, but it gave him a certain simmering intensity that Teddy found arousing.
“The man with the whiskey stabbed me,” Knuckle said, his voice rugged with rasps.
“That man who wanted Jim Beam tonight was… Wait, tonight? You got stabbed tonight?” Teddy’s hands stopped when they gripped his shoulder, which was firm like rock. His skin thrummed and buzzed beneath Teddy’s touch.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you call the police? That man — wait, you mean the man in the suit? The one who raised a fuss about me being out of Jim Beam and-“
“Yes.”
“And then came back to the bar and settled on vodka?”
“I dunno what he drank after.”
“Knuckle…” Teddy sighed. That man had been drinking at the bar right in front of Teddy. Teddy had no idea he had just stabbed the bouncer. He simply filled the man’s orders. The man went into the champagne room with Caitlyn Smiles! “That man could have been waiting in the parking lot with the knife for you to get off work! That’s dangerous, Knuckle-“
“I’s stayin’ here. In the backroom. Not leaving through the parking lot.” That flat murder-hobo voice made Teddy’s spine quake. Knuckle was still doing bicep curls, having not missed a beat.
Knuckle’s claim didn’t solve the problem Teddy had pointed out. At all. The man still had a knife in the bar all night. He could have been waiting for Knuckle in the parking lot. If Knuckle didn’t come, he could have stabbed one of the girls. Or Teddy. He could have been too drunk to know who he was stabbing. He could have had a gun as well. He could have raped Caitlyn in the champagne room. Somebody else could have taken the knife off him when he got drunk. He could have gotten furious when Teddy cut him off for being too drunk. He could have stabbed another customer for looking at Caitlyn.
He hadn’t been banned from Lipsweet! He could be back tomorrow with a bigger knife!
But Knuckle had apparently not told anyone he was stabbed. He just half-bandaged-up and resumed bouncering. He hadn’t even taken a break tonight — had he bandaged himself standing at the door?
He must have guessed what Teddy was thinking because Knuckle said, “Mistuh Gregarian don’t like it when the cops come.”
“He doesn’t like it — that doesn’t apply if you’ve been stabbed, Knuckle,” Teddy said. “You could at least kick the guy out.” Teddy’s hand lingered on Knuckle’s belly, next to the stab-wound from tonight. There was an old puckering circular scar there. “Is that an old stab-wound?”
“That’s a gunshot.”
“You poor baby…” Teddy said, more out of a desire to suck up to the scarfaced weirdo than because he really pitied him. Knuckle was too intimidating to arouse much sympathy. He patted Knuckle on the biceps in lieu of hugging him — Teddy didn’t know if he avoided hugging Knuckle because Knuckle seemed like he might not like it or if Teddy was too intimidated by him. Knuckle was still doing bicep curls too, so it would be awkward to hug him.
But the dancers did treat him badly. They treated all the bouncers like shit — the dancers mostly had high-class boyfriends who were bankers, coke dealers, heirs, etc. The bouncers were a bunch of ex-cons, boxers and freaks like Knuckle. The dancers treated the bouncers like insolent ponies.
And Knuckle wasn’t a jerk like some of the bouncers, like Davon, a prettyboy who seemed nice but never wanted to get his face mussed up and had a side-hustle as a pimp. Teddy didn’t like him.
“Who’s Emma?” Teddy asked as he washed dried blood off Knuckle’s back. EMMA was tattooed on his nape in small Gothic lettering.
“She was a girl. I loved her. That was a long time ago,” he said, and for the first time since Teddy had known him, there was a trace of emotion in his voice. “That was before I looked like this.”
“Oh, Knuckle… Knuckle, I’m sorry — did she…?-“
“She married someone else,” he said.
Teddy hadn’t meant to start rubbing Knuckle’s shoulders and chest like he did with the other bouncers, but as Knuckle talked, that was what he did. Knuckle was tall and thick-bodied, and Teddy had to strain to reach around his thick barrel chest. His pecs flexed, and Teddy found himself hugging Knuckle’s sweat-dappled chest from behind.
“I worked for a traveling carnival when I met her,” Knuckle said. “She had a nice boyfriend even then.”
“You were a carnie?”
Knuckle nodded. “I ran the strength-meter, the one with the hammer.” He paused. “I miss her.” He sounded like he was getting drunk now, his words a little sloshy, and he swayed even though he simply sat on the edge of the bowflex.
His dick twitched in his shorts, and Teddy was glad to see it was huge. He stroked it through the fabric. He was about to ask if Knuckle wanted to be jacked off, but before he could, Knuckle said, “Yes.”
There was no need to ask which question he was answering. In moments, Teddy had Knuckle’s hot, foot-long cock in hand and stroked it slowly. It was even bigger than the other bouncers, he thought. He spat on his hand, then Knuckle grabbed him by the wrist, hocked up a thick loogey of snot and put it back.
Well, that was weird, Teddy thought, but slimy and soft and warm, and he nuzzled the sweaty meat of Knuckle’s scarred shoulder as his hand wrapped around Knuckle’s dick again. The burn-scar was partially orange down the back, and then green towards the spine, the shape distended because it used to be a tattoo — maybe a dragon breathing fire? Teddy didn’t ask because Knuckle leaned his head back, then chugged the last of the liquor in the drink Teddy gave him.
He took his flask out from the pocket of the shorts he had pulled down to bare his cock. He guzzled the rest of that liquor too, as both of Teddy’s hands brought him to orgasm.
A huge wad of cum sprayed over Knuckle’s chest. He moaned — a creaky, flat moan like a malfunctioning grandfather clock — and Teddy licked a few drops up where they landed on his shoulders.
Knuckle groaned like he was either sleepy or drunk or both. He grunted and burped, the sound cavernous to Teddy because he was still behind him on the bowflex. Knuckle pushed back to signal Teddy to leave. His jizz dripped over his chest muscles. Some had gotten all the way up to his chin and lower lip, but Knuckle ignored it.
“I’ll pass out here,” Knuckle said. He glanced up at Teddy, his soulful eyes peering into him. His words lumbered out like a distant volcano. “Thank you, Teddy. For being nice.”
“You’re welcome,” Teddy said. Knuckle was already half-asleep, it seemed. He wasn’t going to wipe the jizz up off his chest or put his dick away. Teddy found a towel in one corner of the gym.
“You can nut on me. Hump my dick, or my chest if you want. Or my mouth when I pass out,” Knuckle said. He shrugged and closed his eyes. “Not when I’m awake.”
“Really?” Teddy furrowed his brow. He often jacked off with the bouncers. They sometimes let him frot their dicks or hump their muscles, as they worked out or drank their post-shift liquor.
But not when they were passed out. And not their mouths.
“Knuckle?” Teddy said softly, his hands rubbing Knuckle’s shoulders lightly. He said it a few more times, then poked Knuckle’s scarred cheek to see if he was awake.
He was out cold.
Teddy giggled and touched his scarred face again, gasping like he was getting away with something. Knuckle’s jizz clung to his chin. Teddy leaned in and sucked it up. The taste was salty and bracing, and when Knuckle didn’t react, Teddy did it again. Then he kissed a trail up Knuckle’s face.
Teddy took out his own dick and frotted it with Knuckle’s giant limp member for a few minutes, until he was sure that Knuckle was fully unconscious. Knuckle snored as Teddy mounted the bench and rubbed his dick on Knuckle’s chest.
He had massive pecs the kind only men in movies had, Teddy thought with a grin. He leaked precum all over those pecs. He found that, when his balls dragged over a nipple, both pecs twitched. He did it again and again, massaging Knuckle’s scarred shoulders.
Then he slipped his dick in Knuckle’s mouth. A hoarse choke came from his throat, but if he was awake, he gave no sign. His mouth was warm and wet, and the sensation sent a shiver up Teddy’s spine.
He moved his dick in and out, rubbing it over Knuckle’s tongue. He twitched a couple times but otherwise didn’t respond. Teddy pushed all the way in, until his balls slapped against Knuckle’s chin.
An intense orgasm overwhelmed Teddy, who moaned out loud and gripped Knuckle’s head. Cum sprayed all over Knuckle’s chin, mouth and neck, but Teddy stuck it back in his mouth, in time to fill it up to overflowing.
A retch and a shake came from Knuckle’s body, but he spat up all that cum, as Teddy’s dick still jizzed, and moistly sputtered, but he didn’t wake up. His big square face was coated in creamy white cum.
“Thanks, Knuckle,” Teddy said softly, still not wanting to wake him up. Teddy dismounted him and pulled up his pants. He was about to leave, but he saw Knuckle sitting there with his pants down, dick out, face and chest dripping with cum.
It seemed undignified, Teddy thought. He wiped off Knuckle’s dick, face and chest, then put his dick away and did his fly back up. He couldn’t put a shirt back on without lifting Knuckle’s giant chest up — an unrealistic proposition — so Teddy left him like that, snoring soundly.
“Have a good night, Knuckle,” was all he said before walking out.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Five

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper awoke in the night needing to piss on the urgent. Felt like his lower half finna explode. He got that bladder neck serious! He lumbered outta bed like a sloppy sasquatch, and he sleepyfooted outta his apartment. The hallway was cold enough to alert him into wakefulness on the way to the bathroom on this floor.
A underhushing of voices could be heard. Someone was in Lipsweet on the first floor, he thunk, as he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.
Carson wanted him to kill Rico, but Thumper done resist — when he cased out the Seventh Street Playas, he saw a unmarked cop car surveiling the jawn. It’d be no good to strike at ’em now. Carson said to hold off for the time being.
Thumper told Carson he got a plan — hide out and wait for Rico’s mama to report him missing, then have him show up. That way if Thumper killed him later, his mama won’t be believed at first.
Plus it let Thumper think. He spent a long time as the head nigga in charge in his cell, and now Carson — a young pup — kinda young anyway — was telling him what to do. Thumper wanna buck. Rico was a brat, but he was pretty and he was young, and Thumper ain’t wanna bring the prison along with hisself to the outside.

On the other hand, Rico disappointed Thumper this weekend. Thumper done told him — and Carson did too — that the apartment him and Thumper shared was a safehouse. Ain’t no place to bring a female. Carson and Mr. Gregarian declared the apartment unlivable some time ago, so the county got no record of it as a address.

And then Rico gone and got his bitch Cherry to come upstairs and see him! Damn fool-ass nigga hiding out in a safehouse, and he got a goddamn stripper to come suck his prettyboy pickle.
Young niggas is dumb!
Goddamn stripper brung her dog! A Saint Bernard! It’s like a bus that drools!
Doing foolish shit like that? It’s no wonder Carson wanted Rico outta the Bloods. A nigga that dumb is gonna get caught and let his knowledge slip sooner or later. Cherry got sexy lips and enough ass for a white girl, and her dog was great, and both she and the dog promised not to tell nobody about the safehouse. She don’t even know no Crips, supposably, and she don’t mess with cops. Still foolish to bring a female in on it. Females got loose lips, a nigga can’t trust even the best of ’em to keep they mouth shut.
That Cherry was who Rico was sposedta rape and kill. If Thumper done read his lines from that script, that’s what woulda happened. Thumper woulda got to go back thirty-four years ago and not join up with that underground boxing league — that was how he got arrested; the nigga he fought in a unlicensed bout died, and Thumper caught a murder charge for it. He ain’t roll over on the Bloods, who put on the fight.
He coulda not joined in. He was in a legal league then, he hadn’t gotta fight unlicensed. But he could convince hisself to say no back then. He could now. He could live his adulthood with all the wisdom of a old nigga.
Rico don’t deserve shit. Let’s face it, Rico gonna get his dumb ass killed sooner or later, prolly sooner. He either gonna get killed cuz handsome niggas don’t last long or he gonna live long enough to turn into a pointless bump on a rump like Davon. Thumper kinda hoped that, when they robbed the Seventh Street Playas, Rico got killed by some other nigga. That way Thumper ain’t gotta do it. But there was no telling when that was gonna happen, and Rico prolly wouldn’t get killed during it. Thumper planned on hitting ’em quick and by surprise, so they won’t have time to fight back.
Thumper could do so much if he was Rico’s age. Rico be wasting his youth.
Buncha people was waggling down in Lipsweet. The more Thumper awokened as he pissed, the more he heard it.
Who was there? Lipsweet was closed.
“-the rehearsal-“
That was all he made out. Nobody should be in Lipsweet right now. Five o’clock in the morning of the a.m on a Tuesday. It was closed as buttoned clothes. There ain’t nobody there, not that should be there.
With his python tucked away, Thumper went downstairs. His brown hazed, mind blazed, heart and soul re-fazed. Fuck off, stay down, go out and back up, nigga, mind yo’ own business. Not a note gets paid for a nigga to poke his nose in unholy demon nonsense. And yet Thumper stayed.
Chanting emanated like lemonade from Lipsweet, and that urge to fade and stay stuck its gavel in. As reality do unravel, he be staggering, his perceptions scattering, deepness battering on the universe like bifocals shattering. Through the backdoor, he be rambling, behind dabs of gabbing voices in the bar proper.
Popping in like a spying copper, Thumper eyed a flight of hooded men, not robbers. They aura got Thumper to pant and slobber.
From they bothersome stance, Thumper chanced upon none they unhandsome pants. Flat rants came through they chants and they slow-circling dance. Thumper’s tramp ears couldn’t say dear outta the dark splendor he heared — a weak speech that sounded, not like English, another speak, like the howls of the damned in heat.
He bin sensing Delsinerr’s rowling beats, though he ain’t yet see the rays of her pitiless gaze. His grays thickened like lazy days, his blood thinned like sad spays, and his hackles got mad raised.
There she was, gliding like madness in waves through those men of sinister ways. They splayed out as if to lay down and kiss her gown like good sisters. One the hooded misters recited excitement from the script of the day, and Thumper glimpsed his face — Mr. Chambreux, a vig-swigging bigwig in Bangor, known for capitalist vapor and catapulting our savior.
“Greetings, Mister White,” she said, unwavered.
“You…” Thumper savored the rousing flavors of her thousand unspeakable sayers. “I ain’t do it. I ain’t say my lines.”
She spoke without talking, clocking his might and making him piss the kittenest of frights. “This I know,” she said in speak of her fill. “You have yet the taboo of free will.”
“What is this?” Thumper tapped his till toward the chanting pipsqueaks in Lipsweet.
“A big-meat rehearsal of curses,” she said, with heat and a guttery scutter of the bug out from under. From Lipsweet, that chant leaked in asunder like a grim fleet of blunders and blow. “You know him, no? Mister Chambreux? His words never stammer, only flow, like his riches through stealth grow.”
“I, uh… I never met him.”
“His wealth did flow from this show like snitches snow outta sour bitches. His power comes ultimately from this hour of witches,” she said. “His role is that which I did pitch him. Through ethical flinches over the torture of bitches, he sped to yes like wrecks done bled red in ditches and fed hits into misses.”
“You still want me to get Rico to kill that girl?”
“Of course,” she said without remorse. “Him and you together like mates of a feather shoulda forced Heather to gape forever and cleverly bed her to shreds the color of grapes using tethers and girders and levers to rape and murder that redhead on tape, convert her to dead, in a shape unwed, by stabbing her nape and her blurter, never let go, grab her fate and do hurt her. I could forever heave-ho on the soul of Rico and his triflin’ sac, and yo’ dearest life would come crawling right back.”
“Heather?”
The quiet she stacked spurted fast like deathbed confessions from a hearse on a rack. For the first time in this rap, Thumper felt her in his verses — she inserted herself in his gaps, searching his bellweathers for what he used to mean ‘Heather’. Then she said to boot, “The one he brung over, who you call ‘small sweet red fruit’. Currant? Raspberry?”
“You mean Cherry?”
“Yes. Her.” Laughter tarried and burst in the vastness of that mask, blasting like a train into the blackness of the rasps on his brain. Her face bug flickered and flung verbal flame at his lame mug. “Or any snack-size lady to roll like a log, if you ain’t wanna orphan her dog, you sentimental beast of a hog.” She scoffed with a start. “I can de-fog that parta yo’ heart, you know.”
“I like that dog!” Foolish indeed to naysay cuzza the stray. Thumper’s face shamed, as his mind exploded with a salad of nos. Like a salsa sans pico, he refused to kill Rico, his refusal infused with rejections of evil and upheavals of importance.
But a tournament of fortune swirled within, and Thumper want a win. He could assuredly sin. Rico don’t deserve nothing. A man deserves only what he is strong enough to pin, and Rico wrestled as weak as tin.

“Think about it,” she said like a foe and clucked her tongue of woes. “Consider it well, my biggest of niggas.” Then she bid off past his vigor, doffed the door like a broken ticker and returned to the bar. Her confusion went across with her.

Thumper went upstairs. He ain’t like getting tremorous. He wasn’t that kinda nigga, but he couldn’t deny he was shook. He sat on his bed and tried to stop thinking about That Woman and her weird-ass words. He thought he’d be unable to sleep, but he drifted right off, drenched in moonlight and craving rain.
He dreamt of prison and the cozy confines of his niggas, a place where everything made sense and there weren’t no crazy ladies noodling around his brain. All he gotta do is fight from time to time, and that felt good as grandpa’s grip to Thumper.
He dreamed about limping, badly injured after a fight he remembered well cuz he got stabbed by some Aryan in the thigh. He arrived at his cell with blood streaming down his leg. The Bloods steady sent him out to fight — he was a enforcer, that was his job in the cell block. He ain’t never apply for it, he ain’t never say that’s the job he want. When you look like Thumper, with a face like a catcher’s mitt and hands like battering rams, you best believe every nigga gonna front like you is a enforcer, so you gonna hafta enforce something. Niggas do be stepping.
A lor nigga Zeke Lampman reenacted the fight, which he done watch from the sidelines — Zeke’s role was to be the lookie-lou, keeping an eye out for the screws. Zeke done told Thumper when the guards was coming, so Thumper could stop fighting back and look like the victim.
“Damn, nigga, you fucked that mothuh up!” Zeke said with a cackling laugh. Thumper smiled, but he was in too much pain to be entertained. It took all his concentration to shield the pain from all them cellbodies looking at him. He got a reputation that nothing shook him, and he gotta uphold it. Last time he fought, he got stabbed and had trouble walking back to the cell, they all said he be slipping and some nigga stepped to him. Thumper hadta regulate with eighty stitches on his side. So now he ain’t show that he even felt the little slit on his cheek.
“C’mon, nigga, lemme stitch you up,” said Bradley Smalls. He done start sterilizing a needle with a grill lighter soon as Thumper walked in. He got the job of stitching niggas up cuz his sister was a nurse.
Thumper gritted his teeth and sat down. Smalls wasted no time in getting the needle in. Some other nigga wiped the blood off Thumper’s face, cuz that was his role in the cell — blood wiper-offer — and he did it right. The blood wiper-offer was prolly lor and got no skills, that was why he got such a picayune role. Nothing wrong with that. A useless lor nigga who know he be useless and lor and who behave proper cuzza it is fine, Thumper got no problem with that nigga. Somebody gotta be the blood wiper-offer.
While Smalls did the stitching, Thumper cleared his mind. He thought about nothing but the needle going in and outta his skin, like his flesh was made of sweater getting knitted. He let hisself take in the cloying-nigga warmth of the overcrowded cell. His skin sheened with sweat. The pain of the needle might as well be happening to some other nigga.
That was when Zeke again caught his eye. He done took off his shirt and pants to play-act Thumper stabbing that Aryan — the Aryan was in his drawers, so Zeke stripped down to play the part of the Aryan getting stabbed.
“C’m’ere,” he said to Zeke, just as Smalls finished stitching him up. Zeke was daffy-laughing with couple niggas still, cuz he was lor and cellbodies assumed lor niggas gotta be funny. If Zeke wasn’t funny, maybe he’d be a blood wiper-offer or a warm body getting shanked in the meat of life. In prison, niggas got a way of rising to or falling down upon they correct level. Only tragic thing is when a outside nigga don’t know his level of competence. Sometimes niggas learn quick in prison. Sometimes they learn slow outsidea prison.
Anyway, the cell niggas all stopped laughing when Zeke came to Thumper, who got tunnel vision and ain’t none them other niggas exist in his notions. All that mattered was him being alive right now, heart thumping, meat bumping, flesh rubbing, mess spilling.
“Whatchoo want, Thump?” Zeke said. The hubbub over Thumper’s injuries be dwindling, so Zeke’s jump-and-jive act died down. Zeke ain’t funny without a audience.
Thumper gripped his shoulders firm, and Zeke quaked a little. All them niggas in the cell turned away with a quickness, and even Bradley Smalls fucked off to clean his needle. They all sensed where this was going. They knew how Thumper do, and they knew what was expected of ’em. When Thumper first got locked up, any nigga who never ramrodded got teased for it. A real man do need to blow a nut. Young niggas see that as unfashioned now.
Smears of blood still clung to Thumper, but that ain’t slow him down none. Tunnel vision, remember. Only this moment do matter.
He pulled down Zeke’s prison boxers, revealing a fine brown booty. Thumper whistled slightly. The other niggas in the cell was getting involved in a craps game, and they all stayed facing away like polished butlers. “Sssh, Zeke, you might wanna go grab the hog fat.”
“Aww, shit, Thump, c’mon, don’t be a ramrod, a nigga, that’s old-ass uncool shit… Be my nigga, nigga… Don’t stick it in me…” Zeke said. He got no compinktions about being loud, it seemed, cuz he ain’t lower his voice none. He slipped away from Thumper, who held onto his shoulders so he gotta squirm like a earthquake to get out from under. Then he scurried off to grab the tub of hog fat they kept in the cell.
“Shush. Pretend you like it,” Thumper said. As Zeke returned and smeared lard on his buttcrack, Thumper pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. “Make some girly sounds. Pretend like you a bitch wit’ a Baltimore accent, nigga.”
Zeke did play the part the best he could, quiet as possible. Thumper ain’t mind the quiet tone to his flirty moans, as that was a lot like a female. But he sounded reluctant moaning around Thumper’s tongue invading his mouth, and that made it harder for Thumper to pretend he was a girl. Thumper pulled off his gentle-nigga lips. “C’mon, sound into it, nigga. I’ll give you a reacharound.” Thumper stroked hisself into full erection, as Zeke’s whining turned feminine.
Then Thumper stuck his dick into Zeke’s asshole, just the tip at first, but that pushed some of the lard in too. It squeezed Thumper’s meat, while Zeke sucked in his breath. Thumper did too, cuz it felt good as candy, and he let out the moan shuddering up his chest and out his throat.
“Shit, nigga — gimme a sec, gimme a sec-” Zeke scrunched his eyes shut.
“Sssssh, don’t talk like that, nigga,” Thumper said. He ain’t hold on to Zeke no more. Thumper preferred to make a nigga choose to stay. Zeke hyperventilated like a woman in labor. Thumper clucked his tongue. “Make sounds like you like it,” Thumper said, as he reached around Zeke to grab his cock. “You makin’ sounds like a woman bein’ raped. I don’t like them sounds.”
“Man, nigga, Thump, c’mon…” Zeke said. He sucked in his breath and stood on his toes. His cock was going flop-a-flop in Thumper’s hand, but it felt good there — it felt like a moment, like this moment.
There was a time decades ago when a nigga could plow any nigga he want, and that other nigga ain’t allowed to fight back so long as the first nigga give him a reacharound. This one warden instituted that rule. Ain’t barely a single nigga who like it, and it was hard for the screws to enforce. Thumper did like it very much, and he did enforce it in his cell.
That was why Thumper kept on rubbing off Zeke, who ain’t get hard, while Thumper stabbed his dick in and outta his asshole. He don’t care about giving him a reacharound, it just felt good to feel Zeke’s manhood throbbing in Thumper’s grip. A young nigga’s dingdong feels good. Maybe it reminds a nigga of when his own dingdong felt like that. Anyway he played with Zeke’s limpness like clay, while Zeke’s tight ass squeezed and massaged a nut outta Thumper’s balls.
“Here I go, nigga, you good, you good, almost done…” Thumper moaned into Zeke’s ear, making him shudder. That caused a wave of tightness and pleasure to rocket through Thumper, bringing him over the edge. He shot his first cumwad into Zeke’s guts, then he backed up and humped his dick in and outta Zeke’s sensitive bootyhole as an orgasm wracked Thumper’s body.
A vast wave of cum filled Zeke up, making him grimace but also sigh, grateful that this was finally over. His whole body tensed up while Thumper’s relaxed, and the jism flowing into his butthole continued for what felt like forever.
Thumper lay back, satisfied, his pain having vanished. His cock plopped out amid his flow of jizz, and he smirked at the sight of cum pouring from Zeke’s ass. More and more kept spurting out, coating Thumper’s crotch and wettening his pubes. Thumper grinned at sight of Zeke’s twitch of pain, as he spread his buttcheeks apart and stood on his toes.
“Shit, nigga, that hurt!” Zeke said. He glared at Thumper like Thumper should be wiping Zeke’s ass clean. That was technically correct. Niggas was required to clean off a nigga’s butthole when he rammed him, but Thumper was a head nigga around here. He ain’t clean shit. So Zeke limped off to clean it his own damn self.
Thumper plopped down on his bed. Now that the adrenaline from the fight done wore off, he was sleepy as a sunset. The sound of the other cell somebodies roared back into his belltower. They was all doing they shit — lifting weights, conversating, pattycake, whatever, all that shit a nigga do, filling the air with behavior. It felt good to hear it. He lay there listening. Niggas wiggled on about the weather for tomorrow’s trash pick-up — it might rain, which meant the guards was gonna cancel it. Guards don’t wanna get wet. Niggas in prison do. Thumper don’t remember what the rain felt like, but he knew it was good.
Before he fell asleep, he eyed this muscley nigga named Ruck. “Hey, Ruck,” Thumper said from his bunk. He yawned as Ruck came to him. “When you go to bed tonight, come sleep wit’ me. We doublin’ up tonight.” Thumper ain’t wanna sleep beside Zeke cuz he was too bony, like cuddling with a coathanger, but Ruck got muscles and meat and plump bits to grab onto, and he used deodorant. That made him a grade-A nigga.
Ruck wrinkled his too-ugly-to-love nose. “Yes, Thump.” Once he got outta the light, it ain’t matter that Ruck looked like a portapotty exploded. He got a ugly face, but in the dark that don’t matter. Only the moment matters.

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Tyrell the Mandingo

Tyrell is outta prison again, and he’s back to Baltimore. He hopes to nab some women, but he just might end up getting down and dirty with men instead. He’s desperate to ensure nobody sees him as a booty bandit, even if that’s exactly what prison life turned him into, so he’ll get his rocks off one way or another!

Can he keep his booty-bandit secret and still get his jollies off?!

Read it now!

Tyrell the Ex-Con

Tyrell is outta prison again, and he’s gonna do what it takes to survive these mean streets… even if that means giving a pounding! He’s been locked up a long time, so he’s learned a thing or two that just might shock any fool who’s never been inside. But can he make the transition to free life?

Read it now!

Tag: in a prison

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Seven

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Eight

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Nine

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Ten

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Eleven

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Four

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter One

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Five

Tyrell the Mandingo

Tyrell the Ex-Con