By Hunter Perez

NOTE: This is a sequel! To read the first series, click here

So, how is life mistreating me? Funny that I should ask. Since we last connected, there has been bad news and sort of bad news.

The bad news is that the warden fell in love with Holmgren’s idea of getting the local saloon keeper to pay for his son Zeb’s education while he was incarcerated. As you may recall, Zeb is illiterate, and his dad wants him to take over the saloon business – which is a tad difficult when you can’t read the liquor bottle labels. According to Holmgren, the warden thought the idea was so brilliant that he insisted on a 70 percent to 30 percent split of the “tuition” – the warden, of course, taking the bigger cut. With this scheme, the plan to have my sentence commuted was put on the proverbial back burner – although I fear it will bypass the back burner and go straight into the trash can if the saloon keeper agrees to it.

The sort of bad news was the delay in getting the saloon keeper’s approval – he was called out of town for at least two weeks, thus delaying the finality of whether I would be trapped in prison (if he approved) or set free (if he disapproved). Without a firm answer, I was stuck in limbo – or, to be more precise, the spruced-up solitary confinement cell that was supposed to be a temporary residence on my road to liberty.

Holmgren opted to use this waiting period to concentrate on other activities and fobbed my care over to Sergeant Patterson, which was something of a blessing. The old guy was aware of my predicament and explained the warden’s decision was strictly an act of financial weakness.

“The poor guy loves playing cards, especially for money,” Patterson confided. “Too bad his enthusiasm is so far ahead of his skills.”

Patterson was a wealth of gossip about the prison’s denizens, and he was especially cutting in describing Holmgren’s drinking (“I never saw a man love his wife as much as he loves his whiskey”) and most of the new guards who were recently hired to fill the longstanding lack of staffing (“A greater collection of boneheads never existed on God’s green earth”).

Patterson was also critical of Merrifield, whom he described as taking his guard job very seriously, perhaps a bit too seriously – Patterson remarked about the astonishing level of conduct demerits Merrifield would submit detailing alleged prisoner misbehavior, although most were very minor infractions such as sloppily made beds and the use of mild profanities when addressing a guard. The paperwork created by Merrifield annoyed Patterson, who admitted canceling nearly all the complaints that were submitted. As Patterson spoke of this newly emerged Merrifield with irritation, I figured it would create more pleasant conversation if I did not proactively mention him.

There was one guard whom Patterson seemed to like very much, a Private Charleson who earned nothing but praise from the sergeant. From his cordial politeness to his willingness to take on difficult work without error or complaint, Charleson could do no wrong in Patterson’s opinion.

“You have a lot in common,” Patterson told me one evening. “He likes books and can hold an intelligent conversation. I think I will have him bring in your breakfast meal. Let me know what you think of him, and I can reassign you to his custody.”

The next morning, there was a gentle rap on the outer door to my enclosure, followed by the click of the lock being freed. The door opened and I had my first glimpse of Private Charleson as he entered carrying my breakfast on a tray.

For the life of me, I could not believe that such a beautiful man existed. He was tall – at least six-foot-three – and broad shouldered with large hands that clamped on the tray, but he walked with a careful grace, as if he was carrying a precious cargo on the tray. He was pale and clean shaven with emerald green eyes and dark black hair, and his appearance was almost aristocratic with his high cheekbones and thin nose. I thought he was in his early twenties, although there was nothing boyish in his mature demeanor.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well,” he said in a deep masculine resonance. His diction sounded mid-Atlantic to my ears. He stared at me and offered a gentle smile. “You’re much younger than what I was expecting. The way that Sergeant Patterson described you, I thought you would be much older.”

I didn’t know what to make of that remark. How was Patterson describing me – like some wacky old man? I began to wonder how much of Patterson’s gossip could be reliable.

Charleson carefully rested the tray on the floor in the vestibule between the outer door and my cell door. He quickly fished out a key from his pocket and opened the cell, pulling it back and then bending down to retrieve the tray. I stepped forward to accept the tray, which he handed to me with a smile before looking about my cell.

“Do you mind if I stay and talk with you for a few minutes?” he asked. “I’ve heard so much about you that I feel I am in the presence of someone very important.”

I looked at him askew and wondered to myself, “What kind of a guard is this?” Charleson stepped into the cell and began to look through the books and publications I had on the desk. He picked up a book and began to thumb through it.

“Have you read this one?” he asked, holding it forward for my review. It was Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein,” and I shook my head no as I put my tray on the bed and sat down next to it.

“It is quite profound,” he continued. “It is about a scientist who wants to play God and brings a dead man back to life. But instead, he creates a monstrous creature who is scorned by other men.”

“I am familiar with the story, Sir,” I said. I realized I was speaking in a lower than normal decibel, perhaps out of respect for this unexpected visitor.

“If you have not begun it yet, then please let me know when you are reading and what you think of it,” he replied before glancing at the tray on my bed. “You should start your meal before it grows cold.”

“Oh, that is okay, Sir,” I answered, forgetting that I was being fed. “Besides, it is impolite to eat in front of someone who is not eating.”

I removed the covering from the tray and found a bowl of porridge, a large piece of brown bread, a tin cup and a small coffee pot. I asked Charleson if he had his breakfast yet and he shook head before acknowledging he did not. I invited him to share my meal and he thanked me for my kindness. I insisted and he obliged by breaking off a very small piece of the brown bread and dunking it into the porridge.

“You’re a very kind man,” he said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his lips.

“Likewise, Sir,” I said.

“Enjoy your meal, and I will be back later,” he said, stepping backwards and closing the cell door carefully before locking it with such grace that I didn’t hear it click. He turned and walked slowly across the vestibule to the outer door, also closing and locking it without creating a clatter.

I broke off a clump of bread and stirred it into my porridge, amazed by my handsome new guard. “Damn, maybe being a prisoner isn’t such a bad deal after all,” I said aloud before devouring my meal.

* * *

For the next two weeks, my routine involved Charleson visiting me at breakfast and lunch and Patterson at dinner. Patterson would also drop in during his off-duty hours to play checkers, share a Bible reading or just talk about any old thing that came to mind – I got the feeling that he was lonelier for companionship than his prisoner in solitary confinement.

Charleson’s conversation was mostly centered on books. Despite his fixation on literature, I wondered if his education was mostly self-achieved. He didn’t speak of attending school and only vaguely recalled his family life as being one of great turmoil. When I asked how he came to his work, he only laughed that it was “a long and complex story,” but he never got around to sharing it. I decided not to pry into his life and instead enjoyed his thoughts on “Frankenstein” and the few Dickens books I had in my collection.

One day, there was a deviation from the routine when Charleson came shortly after I finished my lunch. He entered as usual, with the gentle rap on the outer door, but rather than keeping the outer door open during his visit he closed it. He also seemed a bit more serious in his bearing and his speech.

“I am sorry to disturb you, but I am here on official duty,” he declared. “Today, we have to do a contraband search of the cells, and I am sorry that I have to disrupt your privacy to do a search.”

I looked at him with surprise. “That’s odd, Sir. After all, Lieutenant Holmgren checked me in here and the only visits I receive are from you and Sergeant Patterson.”

He shook his head with embarrassment. “I know, it is silly. Still, all cells need to be searched.” He opened the cell door and beckoned me to approach him. “I am going to need to have you stand against the cell while I do the search.”

I stepped forward to the cell door, and Charleson directed me to stand with my back against the bars. “I will also need to have you put your hands through the bars,” he continued. “I am sorry, but I have to restrain you to the cell door while I do the search. This is part of our policy – we’ve had prisoners attack guards during these searches, which is why this is necessary. I know you are not violent, but those are the rules.”

“If those are the rules, Sir,” I said, nodding while following his command. Charleson stepped behind the cell door, and I felt the handcuffs securing my wrists. I pulled forward and the chain connecting the handcuffs banged into the bar where I was confined. Charleson apologized again and added he kept the handcuffs as loose as possible to maintain comfort despite my awkward situation.

Charleson stepped into the cell and began a running commentary to describe the contraband search process. He carefully peeled the blanket from bed and shook it a few times, and then began to tap his fingers back and forth across the bed.

“You’d be surprised what turns up,” he explained. “During our training, there were various wires and thin shafts hidden in the beds. Most of the men I trained with failed to find them. They were not pleased about being held up for failure.”

Charleson then went to the floor and crawled under the bed for a minute. After emerging, he looked under the desk and began to fiddle with the candles and peeked into the water pitcher. I asked him not to break them in half and he laughed, noting that he could tell if they contained contraband items simply from their weight.

“And now, unfortunately, I need to search your person,” he informed me. “This will only take a minute and then we will be done. I will need to start with your shoes.”

Charleson removed my shoes and poked about them before placing them back on my feet. He then announced there would be a pat down, which would be the last part of the search. He stepped close to me as his hands went under my shirt, tapping my sides and my back. He started to tap my chest, but then something changed – the cordial thin smile that he carried in his search quickly transformed into a sly smirk while his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows arched. His left hand began rub slowly across my upper chest while his fingers combed through my chest hair. He also stood much too close for comfort.

“I can assure you, Sir, that there is no contraband in my chest hair,” I said nervously.

He nodded slightly as his smirk widened. “Well, maybe you’re hiding something in here,” he whispered as his fingers rolled over my nipples. His index finger and thumbs squeezed hard on my nipples, which caused my eyes to pop, my body to convulse and my voice to erupt in cartoonish groans.

“Careful, Sir, they’re attached,” I gasped as I tried to straighten myself.

“Let’s try that again,” he whispered, putting his face right before mine. Charleson pinched my nipples and I started to cry aloud when he clamped his lips over mine while ramming his tongue deep into my mouth. He pushed his body forward, pinning me against the cell door. His kiss was visceral, and I felt myself starting to sweat. When he finally moved back, he looked at me like a conqueror surveying his prize.

“I’m not done,” he announced while pulling down my pants. He licked his fingers and then began to vigorously work my cock while staring at me with a hypnotist-worthy gaze. I rocked with as much tension as my handcuffed position would allow as he stroked me in steady motions. I felt myself becoming erect, and Charleson crouched before me and swallowed my cock, alternating between a tongue wash of my shaft with a fine combing of the flesh with his teeth.

My breathing became heavy and erratic, and my lower body rocked with an earthquake-worthy tremor. Charleson took his mouth off my cock yet stayed before it at face level, stroking it wildly while glancing up at me with demonic glee. He created an eruption within my groin that I could not contain.

“Get out of the way,” I yelled.

“Shoot me,” he yelled back.

I felt like a bursting dam as I shot all over Charleson’s face. He grinned with sweepstakes winner glee at the cum rain that washed him. He stood up, pulled out a handkerchief from a pocket and poured water from the pitcher over it. He wiped his face and then wiped off my cock.

“Sir, is this how the guards are taught to conduct contraband searches?” I said meekly.

He laughed heartily and planted a quick kiss on my lips. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

“That has come up on occasion,” I said.

Charleson pulled a pocket watch from his jacket and bit his lip. “I’m due in the east wing in about 10 minutes,” he said. “We’ll pick this up later. I’m going to close the cell door, so just walk slowly forward.”

“You’re not going to leave me handcuffed to the cell door, Sir?” I said with surprise.

He stepped behind the door and began to push it forward, forcing me to shuffle ahead. “Of course. After all, I’m not done – I didn’t search this yet,” he said, pinching my butt.

I heard the cell door lock click. I tried to turn around but could not see Charleson leaving me. I heard the outer door close and its lock snap shut.

* * *

I don’t know how long I was standing handcuffed to the cell door, but it seemed like an eternity. My mind was a rush of questions, each crazier than the next.

Will he be back before Patterson comes at dinnertime? Or is Patterson coming – maybe he has the night off? And if Charleson comes back, how is he going to search my backside? And is going to expect that I reciprocate his servicing? Should I file a complaint? Or should I just hope that no one finds out and enjoy it for as long as it lasts?

I finally heard the jangling of keys outside the outer door and the opening of its lock. The door creaked open, but I didn’t hear footsteps. I tried again to turn around, but the handcuffs kept me in place.

“Private Charleson?” I called out. There was no answer. “Private Charleson, is that you?”

I heard footsteps entering the vestibule, accompanied by the jingle of spurs. My heart sank when I realized who was there. The footsteps ceased directly behind me as a train of cigar smoke blew past my right cheek and a hard tug yanked at the chain connecting my handcuffs.

“I know that I am going to regret asking this, but why are you handcuffed to the cell door?” said Holmgren.

Before I could answer, Holmgren unlocked the cell door and pulled it back quickly, forcing me to stumble back with it. He paced into the cell and sat on the bed, dropping a large black box next to him. He puffed on his cigar and blew a ring that floated in the air in a wobbly trapezoidal shape.

“Well?” he said. “I asked you a question.”

“It’s a…it’s a bit…complicated,” I stammered.

“It’s always best to start from the beginning,” he stated, gazing at me with barely concealed exasperation. “You were expecting Private Charleson, so I assume those are his handcuffs. Yes?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to avoid Holmgren’s eye contact. “He was…well, he said he had to do a contraband search and he needed me handcuffed to the cell door. Policy…he said it was a rule.”

“Oh, really?” Holmgren said, his voice taking on a facetious tone. “Funny, I don’t seem to remember that rule in the book. And I don’t seem to remember scheduling a contraband search for today, either.” He inhaled deeply on the cigar and blew out another shape that was closer to deformity than geometry. “By any chance, did this contraband search involve the good private giving you a hand job and a blow job?”

I looked at Holmgren with shock. “Yes, how did you know?”

Holmgren shook his head and sighed. “This is the third time that’s happened this week – or, at least, the third case that I am aware of such shenanigans involving Charleson.”

“Well, I’m not complaining about it,” I said. “If there was a complaint, it would be that he kept pinching my nipples after I told him they were sensitive.”

Holmgren let out a small exhale of anguish. “I’ll be sure to add that to his personnel file,” he said, inhaling on his cigar again and then blowing out a mess of smoke that failed to take any shape.

“You’re not very good at blowing smoke rings, are you?” I observed.

“Excuse me, I am more than aware of that,” he yelled. “And the only reason that I don’t have you and your big mouth chained up on the flogging post is because I need you – I got the go ahead from the saloon keeper, so you are now Zeb’s tutor.”

I hung my head and offered my own exhale of anguish. “Oh, great. So I’m here for twelve more months.”

“Believe me, the prospect of spending another twelve months with you as my motor-mouthed prisoner isn’t filling me with joy – especially with the warden helping himself to most of my money for this brilliant scheme,” Holmgren answered. “He gets the cash and I get you, which is not my idea of a fair division.

Holmgren started tapping on the box besides him. “Say, aren’t you curious what’s in the box?”

“Why, is there something for me?” I asked.

Holmgren picked up the box and held it on his lap. “I was in town this morning and I stopped by the sheriff’s office. They said they found it outside, but they didn’t see anyone place it there.” He opened the box and pulled out an envelope. “There was a letter inside addressed to me: John Holmgren, care of Monroeville.”

I was confused by what he was sharing. “That’s weird. Why did they put your mail in a box outside of the sheriff’s office? Why not send it through the post office?”

“Because the post office doesn’t deliver mail from the 21st century,” he said. “This is a letter from Nicky.”

My jaw dropped, and I slumped forward – had I not been handcuffed, I would have fallen to the ground. “Our Nicky?”

Holmgren nodded as he opened the envelope. “Yes, our Nicky.”

To be continued…