Story

The Prison Writer – Chapter 13

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By Joshua Ryan

No one wants to read a complete account of my daily life.  I’ll hit a few of the high points on the tour.

Food:  Early morning, noon, late afternoon — you go to the Chow Hall, which is that huge concrete thing on the Yard that looks like a feature of some winter Olympics.  You sit on a steel stool attached to a long steel table, squeezed into your seat together with miles of other men with numbers on their backs.  The food is substantial: mes compliments au chef.  It’s also cheap, greasy, and ugly.  First time I went to the chow hall, Finn showed me how to line up and get my grub.  I sat with him at a table and he told the other convicts, “Here’s my new bunkie, Ven.”  “Ven” for “Steven.”  All right, I was Ven.

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Noah is roped spread-eagle against a wall

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In this shoot, Noah remains roped spread-eagled against a cold, concrete wall, a steel ball and chain roped to the base of his cock and balls, keeping his cock engorged and purple. Rope man J.J. loves watching this prisoner squirm in pain, so he attaches some nasty clothespins to the his nips, then flogs the pins along with the captive’s cock and balls. What a sexy slave — so vulnerable, so well roped — tortured and displayed to perfection.

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Story

Another Weekend – Part 2

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By slavebladeboi

I swayed a bit in my chains. It was dark, as Boss had turned off the lights when he left and I was somewhat out of it at that point. I was, however, slowly realising that I was standing on my feet as well, and not just my toes. I hadn’t noticed Boss releasing the ratchet a couple of inches, which he must have done whilst rubbing life back into my shoulders.

The plug was still pumped up hard inside me, and the slight swaying gave me that horny gut sensation when it touched my prostate. Some comfort then. The wrist restraints were a decent pair, and my hands were never in danger of getting numb, I could probably stay in that position for hours and simply just get tired arms. But it never came to that. He’d regroup and come back fighting!

And suddenly there he was. Can’t have been more than ten or so minutes when the door flew open and he slammed it behind him. Always a sign that he’d got his energy back. Great. Wish I had. He undid my gag and held up a bottle of water.

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Story

The Prison Writer – Chapter 12

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By Joshua Ryan

I was dressed now in full prison garb, and I had nothing to do but watch the other convicts putting on their new identity — pulling their shorts over their butts, jamming their legs into their pants, lacing their feet into their boots, shouldering their coats onto their backs.  The last one to start was a pretty little guy, 19 or 20.  Maybe I should say that he probably used to be a pretty little guy, before they shipped him to prison.  There was still enough of his prettiness to make me follow the lines of his plump little butt and his pert little dick as he stuffed them into his stiff prison pants.  His dick was hard, going into his trousers.  I thought I might be getting hard myself.  I even remembered why I was there — to get my head and my dick in proper order and write that great and wonderful book about prison.  How would I describe that guy?  What words would I use…?

A door slammed; a muscular voice bellowed through the room.

“All right!  Form up for the fish parade!”

So much for the convict bosses — an officer had appeared.  He was a 40-year-old with a Marine Corps face.  The tag on his crisp gray shirt said SGT GIDEON.

Continue reading The Prison Writer – Chapter 12 →