Tag Archives: prison

Story

My Trip to Paris – Chapter 09

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 9: Bunks, Chairs, and Other Furnishings

8363 . . . . the guy in Bunk 14.  I found myself maneuvering to get beside him in the shower, just for a few seconds to look at his plump, well muscled ass.  I tried to get the seat next to him at chow, just to feel his arm touching my arm through our uniforms.  In the factory I spent every extra second I could spare from my needle looking up the line of backs bent over their machines to watch his back moving rhythmically beneath its stripes.  At night I lay next to him, feet to head, and thought about what it would be like if I caressed his naked head with my naked toes and he wriggled across the few inches of bunk-frame and climbed in with me.  In dreams I told him, “You are about to be fucked!  Assume the position!”

Dreams vs. realities . . . .  If we were on the Outside, I’d do the usual: take him to Bleue, invite him to my place for drinks, become insistent if he noted that the hour was late . . . .  But in prison, I was no better than he was; I couldn’t impress him with my bald head, my convict uniform, or my criminal record.  And he evaded all my cues.  He saw how hot I was for him, but he treated it as a fact he didn’t need to do anything about–a fact of life, like the walls and bars.

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Story

My Trip to Paris – Chapter 02

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 2:  We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness

We met at La Bête Bleue, which was a couple miles from my house.  He lived in Paris, but he didn’t mind traveling.  And after all, he was my guest; I’d be paying.  I was sure he knew that Bête Bleue wasn’t in the price range of a prison employee.

I got there early and had started on my cocktail when he arrived.  The sound of his ass hitting the booth made it clear that he was heavier than I’d remembered him.  More pounds, but apparently they’d all gone to muscle.  Unlike my extra pounds.  Bête Bleue is dark, but I still had to do my best, keeping my spare tire out of sight . . . .

The big smile—that was new.  Not his bashful college smile—something more interesting.  When you’re in business—when you’re successful in business, anyway—you’re alert to smiles that have had to be learned.  So good for him, he learned it.  And I can’t deny it was attractive.

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Story

Can Dreams Come True? Part 4

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By Shket36

With English-language editing by Joshua Ryan

Convict “Sanin”:

They took me back to the cell.  “To the wall”, “go”, “hands”, “to the original” – commands that I already carried out automatically.  I thought about my meeting with Nikolai.  I’d really missed someone who knew me, who knew my true interests…  And it seemed to me that Nikolai was proud of me, of how I clearly carried out all the commands of the officers…

So the time passed in thought until the evening inspection. As usual, at the command “on duty,” I stood at attention and made a report.  Then they took me out of the room, put me in position with my head bent against the wall, and examined me and my cell with special care.  But this would not be a normal inspection.  One of the officers who searched the cell shouted that he had found a “cache”!

I was shocked: “How? Where? It can’t be so!”  The senior officer immediately commanded: “Convicted Sanin. In your report you said that you do not have any prohibited items. We found a cache in your place containing a cutting object. This is a serious violation. Your reward is detention in a punishment cell for 30 days. Take him away.”

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Story

Can Dreams Come True? Part 1

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By Shket36

With English-language editing by Joshua Ryan

This is a story about adults, and for adults only.

Senya Petrov speaks:

It’s hard to remember when I became interested in the prison theme. Since childhood I liked the feeling of helplessness. I imagined myself in the place of a prisoner, a convict.  One day, my godfather (he served in the police) left handcuffs at our house. This was my finest hour. It is difficult to describe the secret delight and excitement from the feeling of metal in my hands.

Time passed… school, university, work…  Interest in restrictions did not disappear. Gradually I began to form my own collection of shackles, handcuffs, chains. Two years ago I came across an advertisement for the sale of real convict uniforms. I think there is no need to explain that I wasted zero time placing my order. When I received the delivery of the black suit with gray stripes of a Russian prisoner, made of coarse fabric, my hands were shaking.  My adrenaline was off the charts, as was my excitement. From that time on, I began looking for prison-themed role-playing meetings.

A year or so ago — it was in mid-September— an intriguing message arrived in my inbox: “I can put you in prison temporarily.”

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Story

A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 12

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By Hunter Perez

You might be familiar with the saying “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” I don’t know who originated that observation, but it could have easily been me. Having somehow unlocked Merrifield from his immobile silence through the most ridiculous manner imaginable, I suddenly found myself wondering how to proceed further. Holmgren pretty much tossed me into this situation without advance planning and I had to think fast about what to do next.

Since Holmgren was supposed to be bringing us dinner, I figured I could keep entertaining Merrifield with my favorite songs until our meals arrived. I was starving, but somehow I found adrenalin to fuel me through the absence of food. I was also trying to recall songs that sparked positive reactions from my past which could be translatable into my current bizarre situation.

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Story

The Prison Writer – Chapter 14

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By Joshua Ryan

A month later, on a dead Sunday afternoon, I was lying in the cell when I was told that I had a visitor.  The idea was incomprehensible.  No one had written; no one had come.  Why would they come?  And why would I want them to come?  For what?  To view an exhibit of the once promising author who was now a convict?  To laugh at me in my bald head and my convict suit, and go back and pity me online?  Basically, the only visitors willing to come that far were the ones smuggling some “business” in or out for some convict, and that wasn’t me.

But now I was being taken to the Visiting Room.  It’s a place in that Victorian castle that juts out from the front of the Pen, and it looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1890s.  There’s a high ceiling, marble floors, big windows, and a large collection of cast iron bars.  In the center there’s a long, wide table, and in the center of that is an ironwork grille running up to the ceiling.  Visitors and prisoners sit on separate sides and enter from separate doors.  Visitors sit on chairs with arms; prisoners sit on little wooden stools.  On that Sunday the room was unusually full.  Ten or twelve people on each side.  I mean, ten or twelve visitors on one side, and ten or twelve convicts on the other.  During the time I’d been at Maskawa, I’d never heard a convict being called a person.

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