The lights dimmed in block D at 9 p.m. sharp, but the real heat never shut off. I had been inside six months when the new guy, Marcus, got assigned the bunk below mine. He was thick, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and arms covered in faded ink. First night he stared up at the springs above him and said, low and rough, “You fuck or get fucked in here?”
I didn’t answer with words. I climbed down, dropped my jumpsuit to my ankles, and straddled his face. Marcus didn’t hesitate. His tongue dragged hot and wet up my hole like he’d been starving for it. I braced one hand on the wall and rode his mouth while the guy in the next cell jacked off loud enough for everyone to hear.
After that we stopped pretending. Every night after count we stripped fast and quiet. Marcus had a thick, veined cock that curved up hard the second I touched it. He liked to shove me face-first against the bars, spit on his fingers, and work two inside me while he whispered how tight I still was. Then he’d line up and push in slow, making me feel every inch until his balls pressed tight against me.
Some nights he made me beg. He’d hold still deep inside, one hand around my throat, and ask, “You want this load, bitch?” I’d push back on him, hole clenching, and growl yes until he started pounding. The metal bunk creaked under us. Cum would drip down my thighs and he’d push it back in with his fingers before we slept.
We got caught once by a guard who just watched for a minute, then walked away. After that Marcus started fucking me with the cell door open a crack so anyone walking the tier could see my ass getting used. He liked the audience. He’d slap my cheeks red and say loud enough to carry, “Take that dick, boy. Show them how you earn your keep.”
On weekends the block got louder. Guys in other cells would call out, asking if they could have a turn. Marcus sometimes let them watch up close, one hand gripping my hair while another inmate stroked himself through the bars. Once he pulled out and let a skinny guy named Rico finish inside me while he watched, then fucked me again right after so the mixed loads ran down my legs.
The best nights were when the power flickered and the emergency lights stayed red. Marcus would flip me onto my back, hook my legs over his shoulders, and drill me until I came untouched across my own stomach. He’d keep going, using the slick mess to fuck harder, until he flooded me so deep I felt it for hours.
We never talked about getting out.
We just kept the routine: lights out, clothes off, his cock in my ass until we both passed out sticky and sore. In a place built to break you, that raw, filthy rhythm was the only thing that still felt like freedom.
