prison bride
I'll call him Ben. I don't know his real name but the rest of the guys called him Ben Dover on account of his first words to the fresh meat on B Wing.

I'd arrived on a six month stretch for fraud and didn't expect too much of a hard time. My cellmate 'Eazy Q' - a white rapper with a nasal whine and a mincing gait whose real name was Kevin Frampet - told me how it was 'in the clink.' "You've got to find a tough guy who'll look after you in return for him violating your various orifices at will," he said. When he bent over, his rectum was so wide that you could see out of his nostrils. He was very well looked after, evidently.

So I met Ben. He was a poorly educated fellow but made his intentions apparent by roughly sodomising me in the library as I sought a periodical. Prison brings out the best and the worst of men, and Ben was not a tender lover. His idea of foreplay was to bash my head against hard surfaces or get me in a necklock so that his goatish reek overpowered me. But he could be moved by poetry and I once saw him weep as I read Wordsworth to him as he used my buttocks as a tender bap for his engorged hotdog.

Before long we were inseparable - usually because his swollen tool was lodged in my anus. I derived no pleasure from the relationship and often wished him dead as his feral scrotum rested on my chin. As a heteroseual man, I had some considerable issues with the sexual aspects of our union and tried to explain to him with sign language and simple pictures that I was not a woman, but these pictures enraged him and invariably resulted in one of more of my tender holes being filled with his glistening meat.

When my six months was up, I bade Ben goodbye and went back to a normal life. But even now, when I smell a stray dog or a leathern satchel, I can't help but think of Ben and his primeval assaults upon my person.
(frankspencer, Sat 16 Jun 2007, 17:31, Reply)