By Johnny Utah

Based on a suggestion by MetalbondNYC

I was at a camping site in the Osceola National Forest. We had been out there camping for three days. Just a bunch of us, we all knew each other from college, it was our last day there. We’d be packing up after lunch. We stayed near the Ocean Pond, more of a small lake. It was a nice place but after three days I was ready to go back to civilization. The bugs weren’t too bad, and we did a lot of hiking.

While everybody else was heading home I was going to stay in the area for two more days in a hotel somewhere towards Jacksonville. I didn’t have a job to go back to because of COVID. My job searches were not getting me any call backs.

I turned out onto road and set off for Jacksonville. I was driving for about five minutes when I saw it.  There was a sign, “Prison Work Crew Ahead.”  Sure enough, just ahead of me were groups of guys working on my side the road. There were a lot of them, working away. I wondered how early they started. They were all in blue uniforms, some wore an orange vest, some not.  There were white guys and black guys, all sweating away. Guys were using weed whackers on the long grass, sticks with claws on the end you can use to pick up trash without bending over too far, and some guys just using their hands to pick up trash and junk at the side of the road.

Mixed in with the crew were deputies in green pants and tan shirts. I couldn’t believe it!  I thought I should get my phone out and take some pics, but I thought I might get in trouble for driving and texting. Some were close to the road others were up by the woods that bordered the road. Could those guys escape? I thought. There were all those Florida pine forests that went on for miles. Then I thought, oh yeah, they have those hound dogs to track guys who escape. There were a couple of orange dump trucks piled with trash bags, a truck with a bunch of those insulated water jugs on it, and another truck with a trailer with a port- a-potty on it.  Guess you can’t just go and shit in the woods.

Drivers were passing me really fast. Without realizing it I had slowed down a lot. I’m sure I was way below the speed limit.

I stopped at a gas station just before the I-10 to Jacksonville, just to settle down after seeing all those hot uniformed prisoners and get a soda.

Setting down wasn’t going to happen. At the gas station parking lot were several white vans marked “Florida Department of Corrections”! I got out of my car and leaned against it to take in all the sights.

A crew was taking a break at the gas station, they must have finished picking up trash and were waiting for the grass cutting crew to finish up.  I watched them for a long time, longer than I realized. They were a mix of young and old, black, white and Latino. They had two-piece uniforms. Blue tops like the kind dentists or nurses wear and blue pants with a white stripe down the leg on the outside of the pants leg. Some of the guys’ uniforms were dirtier than others. A couple had their shirts off and I saw they had belts on, I thought that was kind of strange. You always hear they don’t give guys in jail belts and shoelaces and stuff like that. But then I thought they had gas powered grass trimmers so maybe these guys were special.  They all had black boots on, that made sense, don’t want your feet to get cut open with those weed whackers and all that broken glass on the highway.

I went into the gas station to get a soda. Just a typical small gas station store with a couple of aisles selling beer, sodas, chips and jerky. And then I saw him at the register. He was one of those uniformed guards who had been out with the grass cutting crew.

You know how when you see pictures of houses or old log cabins that have burned down, all you see is the brick chimneys? This guy was built like one of those chimneys, a solid column of muscle! His shoulders were big and sloped up to his neck. He had a big head. He had a tan baseball cap on with some kind of patch on the front. I didn’t see any hair; my guess was he had a shaved head. Piercing blue eyes. Eyes like a lion when it’s making that final decision about whether to attack an antelope.  Big pecs! His biceps were huge. It looked like his tan short shirt sleeves were cutting into his arms. He had a big bulky watch on his left wrist. He had a big duty belt on with a taser and several cans of mace. His thighs stretched out his green pants. He had a big bulge in his crotch.  Big black boots.

On his shirt were the three stipes of a sergeant. His name tag said “Stiles.”

He knew I was checking him out from the vantage point I had near the door. He finished what he was doing with the cashier and came over to me and said, “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I managed to get out. “Looks like you have a lot to look after,” motioning with my head toward the vans outside. I tried to make conversation while trying to keep my eyes from roaming all over his body.

“They ain’t any trouble,” he said. “If they’re on this work detail they’ve already earned some privileges, so they don’t want to lose them, they’ll behave.”

Then Sgt. Stiles said to me, “You done in here?”

“Yes, I just came in for a soda,” I said.

Sgt. Stiles came back with, “I don’t see a soda.”

“I changed my mind,” I said, immediately thinking that soda wasn’t a priority when I saw that wall of uniformed muscle.

“Let’s step outside, then.” He stuck an open-faced hand with his thumb firmly pressed against his index finger to signal that I should go out the door. Command rather than signal, I should say. Like those Marine Drill Instructors who use their hands when they talk to show how pissed off they are.

“I saw you looking at those prisoners out in the parking lot. Did you like what you saw?”

I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. I just blurted out, “Yes.”

“What’s so special about them?” Sgt. Stiles asked.

“Just that they’re all in uniform, all in a group, working away. With you guys watching them.”

“You guys, you mean Correctional Officers?”

“Yes,” I blurted out, with more than a hint of sexual implication.

He continued to look at me without saying anything, without moving.

“I saw them picking up trash on the road,” I stuttered out nervously. “With all the junk at the campsite I was at for the past few days I was wondering what it would be like to exchange places with one of them, perhaps making myself useful and helping improve the park rather than just stumbling through the trails like all of the other tourists.”

“Oh yeah? That’s real social responsibility.” He was mocking me. “Well, you never know, one day you might get a lucky opportunity like that.”

Sgt. Stiles turned and swaggered back to the vans. His ass was perfect; round and muscular.

I wondered where the hell these guys had come from., I later found out that was the Baker Correctional Institution. I passed it on the way out of the National Forest.

The drive in Jacksonville on the I-10 didn’t take too long. I was hot and bothered about my running into that prison guard. I found my hotel right by the highway.

A few hours later I was in my room at the hotel, happily jerking off to the thought of that guard when my phone went off. I didn’t recognize the number at all, the caller ID said FLOR DOC. What the fuck was that?  I answered and as soon as the caller spoke, I knew what FLOR DOC was: Florida Department of Corrections.

“I bet this is a surprise!” said Sgt. Stiles. I recognized his voice.

“How did you get my number?” I stuttered.

“Don’t be too shocked. I got your rental plate number and got the company to give me your name. It wasn’t too difficult after that to get your record.”

“What record? I’ve never been in trouble,” I said.

He laughed, “remember when you registered for the camping spot at the National Forest? “There’s all kinds of personal information on there.”

“Yeah, a lot more than name and telephone number,” I said.

“Let me get down to business,” Sgt. Stiles said.  “I saw you taking a real long look at those prisoners working out on the road. You also checked me out real good, too. Don’t think I didn’t notice, and I appreciated it.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“You said you’d like to be more useful,” he continued. Would you really want to do something like that, work on a road crew?”

“Yes,” I managed to get out. My mouth was dry, but my cock was rock hard and dripping precum. I found myself able to talk again. I don’t know why, but it just flowed out of me.

“I was thinking what it must be like to be one of those prisoners, being in the uniform, doing the work, going back to the prison.”

“Well, we can do something about that right away, punk,” Sgt. Stiles said.

I took a long time to answer. Did he just call me punk?

“You still there, punk?”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied reflexively. He had me. His claws were in me.

“If you’re interested in getting together and if you’d like to see what it’s like being a prisoner for a day, meet me in an hour. Just get out on to Chaffee and head south, there’s an old bar called Fat Boyz, with a Z. The bar’s painted yellow, you can’t miss it.”

A moment of fear was overruled by my dick.

“Yes. Yes, Sir. I’ll be there in an hour,” I replied. Then I heard a click as the line went dead.

With no time to finish beating off or even a quick shower I left, driving out of the hotel and down Chaffee Road for a few miles. Sure, enough there it was, painted banana yellow. Just a small place. Biker bar maybe. I parked and went in.

The place wasn’t big. Two pool tables, a small dance floor, some tables. He was there at a table at the back of the bar. He stood up when he saw me in the doorway. He was over six feet tall, easy.

He had a high and tight haircut. The kind that was all skin on the sides until there was a sudden line of closely clipped hair. It was hard to tell the color because of how short it was and the lighting in the bar. Just dark hair I guess was the best description. He did have a big head, with a square jawline, clean shaven. Eagle blue eyes looked straight at me. His chest was constricted by a black tight fitting polo shirt. His biceps strained the sleeves. There was a patch chest hair poking up through his collar. He had green 511-type pants that squeezed his thighs, and big brown boots. A sizeable bulge in his crotch. I was expecting a rough welcome. Instead, I got a friendly greeting.

A big right hand went out, “Sergeant Cody Stiles.” I shook it. “Glad you made it. I wasn’t sure you’d show, you were pretty nervous on the phone. Come on, sit down, we’ll talk about things.”

I sat at the table, my mind swirling. What was I doing?

“You want a beer or something?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure, that would be great,” I said nervously.

“Hey June, can we get two beers?” he said loudly toward the bartender. It took a minute and a woman, I guess June, brought over two bottled beers, what brand I don’t even remember, I was fixed on Sgt. Stiles.

“I’m in charge of all the work release road workers at Baker Correctional Institution. You probably passed it on your way up to the I-10.  I’ve been there just over 10 years now, started out as a rookie there. I’m really glad you showed up, shows you’ve got balls. I find guys with a ballsy attitude really hot.”

“What you’re asking about, becoming a prisoner for a day, I’ve heard about it before,” he continued. “I guess it does happen. I kind of hinted around to some of the other guards about something like getting a guy onto a work crew. One guy said it happened all the time down in Hendry Correctional, that’s down south.  Something to do with getting around piss tests. They’d get replacement guys with clean piss in for the day to pee for them and pay ’em a few bucks and that was it, same day they were gone.”

I listened with great excitement.

“If you are interested in seeing what it’s like working out with the road crew, I can set that up,” the sergeant said.

“How could that be?  I haven’t committed any crime,” I said.

He laughed. “Prison’s full of guys who say they haven’t committed any crime. And I can get you a taste of it if you really want,” he said with a crooked smile on his face.

“How would you do it?” Now I really was hooked on the idea.

“I can get you added to a work crew. I control the roster and I do all the pick-ups of new prisoners. No one’s going to question me.  I just need a photo for your ID. I can take it right here with my phone.”

“That’s all you need?” I asked.

He made it sound so easy.

“I got everything else already from that National Forest application, they really ask for a lot of stuff on that form, don’t they?”

I wondered what else he knew about me.

“I’ll get you a uniform and boots, get your Road Crew ID, and you’re pretty much done,” he said. “I’ll drop you off as a late arrival and then come get you close to quitting time and take you back to your car. One thing, though. Don’t shower. Those guys shower at the end of the day — if they do shower.  You show up smelling Irish Spring fresh and they’ll think you’re a snitch. You don’t want that, believe me.”

I was getting even more excited now.

“Just up the road from the gas station is an old service road to a cellphone tower,” Stiles said. “Pull in there and I’ll meet you with everything you’ll need for the day.  I’ll get you dressed out and take you to the crew.  I’ll get your car to the gas station where we met. I’ll bring everything you need.”

I nodded.

“You need me to call your job?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t got work right now. No one knows I’m still down here,” I said, before realizing I should have clammed up.

“OK then, tomorrow’s your day on a prison road crew. You’ll have a fucking great time!”

With that he gave me a tight squeeze on the back of my neck and sauntered out the door. I thought to myself, what a cocky fuck!  I chugged down my beer and left.  No sign of Sgt. Stiles in the parking lot.

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Metal would like to thank the author, Johnny Utah, for this story!