Addicted to Dic

The cot in the room behind the guard's room at Hollins Prison was narrow, but it fit young, below-average-height inmate Ricky and not as young, taller, and more muscular guard Tate. The proof of that was that Tate was managing to lie on top of Ricky without either of them being dumped to the floor. Ricky was panting, tongue flicking out of his mouth and grimacing slightly with each deep thrust of Tate's dick inside him.

They were doing a missionary, Ricky on his back, naked from the waist down, thrusting his pelvis up a bit by the leverage of his feet dug into the rim of the cot surface on each side and his legs spread and bent. Tate, fully dressed in his guard's gray uniform except for his fly unzipped and flared and shirt unbuttoned to expose his muscular torso, lay, weight taken on his knees, between Ricky's spread legs. His muscular arms were laced under Ricky's armpits and grasping the top rail of the brass headboard behind Ricky's head.

Both men were concentrating on the throb and slide of the cock inside Ricky's channel. Tate moaned and came in for a hurried kiss but then dug his knees in and thrust harder and deeper. Ricky's groan was punctuated with sliding his hands under the waistband of the back of Tate's uniform trousers and digging his fingers into the guard's meaty butt cheeks.

"I think I'm gonna—" Tate muttered, starting to withdraw from Ricky's channel.

"No, don't pull it out. Inside me. Cream me deep," Ricky begged, and he clutched Tate's buttocks hard to him, not letting the guard withdraw.

Both men jerked and exclaimed a "Shit. Fuck," almost in unison as Tate shot a load, shuddered, and shot another one.

Tate made to pull out again, but again Ricky clutched at his buttocks and muttered, "No, don't. Last time. I want to feel you go soft inside me. Keep your dick inside me."

"I don't think I'll go soft," Tate said, with a low growl. "You're too sexy. I got cum left for you."

And, indeed, he didn't really go soft. He quickly recharged, and, young, virile, and in great shape, he fucked Ricky again without having pulled out. That obviously was quite all right with Ricky.

Afterward Tate sprawled out in a wooden swivel desk chair, legs spread, and his hand on his meaty cock and his other hand holding a lighted joint, while he watched Ricky on his back on the cot, slowly jerking himself off.

"Gonna miss you, Bud. And I'm sorry," Tate said after he'd watched Ricky ejaculate. "You're a good kid and a great lay."

"I didn't do it, you know. I took the rap for a friend. He said he'd die in prison if he had to be locked up here. I didn't do drugs, let alone sell them."

"Yeah, I believe you," Tate answered in a "that's what they all say" voice and taking another drag on the joint they were passing back and forth. "Don't matter now, anyway, does it? You served the time and you're getting out tomorrow." He could just as well have added, "and if you didn't do drugs before, you sure as hell do them now." To accentuate that, he handed the joint to Ricky again, who took a drag on it and handed it back.

"So, you're sorry we can't do it anymore," Ricky said. "That's why you said you're sorry?"

"Yeah, that's it," Tate answered, but it wasn't why he said it—or why he felt it.

"So, you going back to this boyfriend you took the rap for?" Tate asked.

"I can't leave the state. And he skipped down to the Caribbean at the first sign of trouble."

Tate gave Ricky another drag on the joint. "You know you don't have to be lonely when you get out. We can see each other on the outside if you want it—need it." He'd added the last because Ricky always left the feeling that he needed the cock, that he needed a dick inside him. Like just now, when he had said he didn't want Tate to take it out of him. Tate didn't think Ricky was just shitting him about that.

"I'll be across state, up near Winchester. Probation officer's got a job lined up for me there, and my brother's there. I can live with him until I get back on my feet."

"On your feet is better than on your back, Ricky." Tate didn't know why he cared about this guy—so young and vulnerable—and so good looking. True jail bait. But there was something about him that made Tate feel protective, and he was always willing to be dicked when Tate could arrange it. It had been a chore keeping him out of the hands of seasoned inmates like Butch. He'd had to extend his protection over him. Fat lot of good that would do now, though.

"Yeah, I hear you. It's just that I like—"

"Addicted to dick. That's what I think you are. And it's not going to do you any good. As soon as you get out of here you need to find a sugar daddy young enough to keep it up, keep it in you, and keep you from reaching for the drugs."

"You're one to say that. You're addicted to male pussy." Ricky laughed, turned on his stomach, gave Tate a provocative look, and raised his bare buttocks a bit off the cot. "And I see that you're hard again now. Come and get it, guard."

Tate was hard again, and he

did

go and get it again, lying stretched out on top of the smaller, younger man and taking him from the rear. Showing his prowess in exercise regimes. Once he was mounted on Ricky's ass, with his dick buried, Tate showed his strength by taking a pushups stance and doing a hundred on a groaning and moaning Ricky. When Tate at last lowered his body on the young man's back, Ricky reached back and clutched at the guard's butt cheeks, holding the dick inside him for as long as possible after Tate had given him another double load.

Eventually, both of them fully dressed again, Tate stood and said, "Gotta take you back to your cell now. So, I guess this is it. You could find me in the Nottoway phone book if you wanted to link up after you get out, but it would be dangerous. We can't exchange anything on paper now. It would be my job—and probably a breach of your probation for us to connect on the outside. Something for both of us to think about. But I'll remember you. You're a great lay, you just should be using this release as an opportunity to turn your life around."

"Thanks. You've been good to me Tate."

Not that good, no, Tate was thinking. He'd extended the protection to this point because he wanted to fuck Ricky. There was no other honest way of looking at that. And, God, was he sorry about what came next for Ricky. But it couldn't be helped. He had no control over it. He'd said he was sorry to Ricky, which was the best he could do, even though Ricky had no idea why he was sorry.

* * * *

When Tate walked him back through the minimum security section, Ricky looked around in the cell that had been his for nearly a year. His suitcase was packed, and everything else he'd accumulated—what they'd let him accumulate—was in two small boxes. He could manage to walk out the next day with those, carrying them himself. They'd probably make him carry them himself, he thought, a small smile forming on his lips.

In many ways he'd miss it here. He'd been kicking around in life in Richmond with little motivation and few plans when he'd been arrested for dealing. He hadn't lied to Tate. It had been Lyle's stuff, not his. He'd done some underage drinking, but he hadn't done drugs, let alone dealt them. He had to laugh as Tate had done earlier when he'd handed Ricky the joint. Ricky had learned to do drugs here in the prison to which he'd been sent before for doing drugs before he'd actually done them. Of course liquor was a drug, as the judge had reminded him before he pounded his "I don't care" gavel on his desk, and Ricky had arrived in the judge's court drunk.

Ricky only did minor drugs here and not much of that—he'd found early, though, that he had to do some or he'd have been beaten on by the other inmates for thinking he was above them. As it was, he'd taken a few beatings until he'd hooked up with the guard, Tate, for protection. That hadn't been hard on him. Lyle had been fucking him, and Ricky did have a thing about having a man's dick inside him. Luckily, Tate had taken him up before the other inmates knew that, or Ricky would have been brutalized as well as fucked. Tate just gave him the cock; he didn't beat on him. And Ricky couldn't have gone this year without having a cock inside him regularly.

The others in the prison—the inmates and guards—just didn't know how regularly Ricky needed to have a cock inside him.

Lyle would have been a three-striker and Ricky believed him when he said he'd die in prison. They hadn't done so badly by Ricky. It was a minimum security prison and he'd had just a few routines he had to follow. He only rarely was locked in his cell, other than at night. He got to work outside in good weather, helping with the landscaping, and he had plenty of gym time, which had toned his rather small body up nicely. That had increased the cat calls he got from the other open-door cells as he walked the section, but knowledge that he was Tate's punch had kept the other guys in their cells—and Ricky outside of their cells. He'd let one black bruiser fuck him, early on, and he'd reveled in having a big black cock inside him, but Tate had put a stop to that. He'd let Ricky know in no uncertain terms how rough life would get for him if it became general knowledge that he'd put out casually—and for anyone but Tate—and, especially, for a black bull. There weren't many young guys in the prison who could take a black bull without damage.

Ricky had also done work at the Warden's house, painting his upstairs bedrooms. And the warden had done him in an upstairs bedroom too. He'd bent him right over a bed, knelt and eaten him out, and then given him the cock hard and deep. Instinctively, the warden knew exactly what Ricky wanted and needed most, although it surprised him that someone so evidently innocent would be so anxious to have a man's cock inside him. When he had first driven the cock home to where short and curlies were tickling Ricky's ass cheeks, he grabbed Ricky's hips and held hard, steady, and deep, while Ricky fucked himself in his own way on the hard staff, rhythmically pushing his buttocks back onto the cock. When Ricky had come, the warden then pumped himself to an ejaculation in the young man's well-open channel—and Ricky went with him.

Afterward, the warden told Ricky not to tell anyone about it. He hadn't told Tate about that. But it was the warden who had arranged for a probation officer who all said was the most lenient of the lot and it was the warden who had gotten Ricky set up with a job up in Winchester, near Ricky's brother. So bending over the bed for the warden once—well, three times to be honest—had worked out well for Ricky in the end.

Ricky was still thinking about what part of this experience he would miss, when the sound of a policeman's nightstick running along the bars of his cell caught his attention. One of the other guards—not Tate, but one who was meaner to the inmates—stopped at Ricky's open door and motioned for him.

"Come with me," he said. "You're spending your last night elsewhere. Leave your stuff. You can pick it up tomorrow when you're released."

* * * *

"Where are we going?" Ricky asked as he followed the hulking, unsmiling guard through the corridor of the minimum security section. The man let his nightstick run across the bars facing out in the corridor, causing a racket. It was late enough that some of the inmates might have turned in for the night. The guard obviously didn't care.

"You're being released tomorrow," the guard answered.

"Yes, so?"

"You've had it pretty cushy here. This is a state prison, so they have standards that coddle the inmates—if you ask me—and check frequently. You're in for drugs, aren't you? And it's your first conviction, isn't it?"

"Yes to both," Ricky answered.

"Well, our deputy warden here has a little program of his own. He likes to give guys who have lived a certain way here and are being released a little incentive not to be sent back. And next time you come—for a second conviction—it won't be to the pansy side of the house. You'll go to the medium-security wing. Understand?"

"Not really," Ricky responded.

"As I said, the deputy warden has a little incentive program of his own. We know Tate has been your protector here and what you've done for him to get that protection. We're going to medium security and you'll spend the night there. Warden wants to get in the minds of the minimum security guys what the difference is between that and being in medium security. You've been in for one offense. We want you to think twice before getting yourself sent up again. And here we are."

The cells here didn't have open doors. The guys hanging their arms through the bars as the guard guided Ricky down this corridor sang out cat calls and offered rough propositions and suggestions that were much more ominous than anything Ricky heard in minimum security.

Half way down the corridor, the guard turned, pulled out a ring of keys, and opened a cell door. The cell was dark, but Ricky could see a figure in the shadows—a hulking figure, more than a foot taller than Ricky and more than a foot wider too—a regular body builder with a thick, hairy body. The figure came closer. The face was battered, ogreish, and with a sneer planted on it. All the guy was wearing was gym shorts hanging low on his hips, under a beer belly.

"Here he is, Butch, as promised," the guard said. "He's yours for the night. Have fun. Just don't kill him or mark him up too noticeably."

The guard pushed Ricky into the cell. "Don't fight him, kid, if you want to be able to walk out of here on your own tomorrow. Like I said, you come back to this prison, it will be to this section, and every day for you will be like the next six hours are going to be for you."

Ricky turned his head and watched the guard leave the cell and lock the door, but he remained there, hands on the bars, looking in, with a smirk on his face. When Ricky looked back into the cell, he saw stars and dropped to his knees as a fist smashed into his cheek. On his way down, a knee caught him in the stomach. He retched in pain and shock, as he was pulled up by his hair, punched in the face—but with a last-second holding back that, nonetheless, conveyed what a full-force punch would be like—and lowered to his knees again. A monstrous, hard cock was pressing at his cheek and then at his lips and then at his inner cheek. Ricky opened his mouth to the cock, and gagged as bulb went into the back of his throat.

"Well, OK, Butch, have it your way," the guard said and laughed before he walked away from the cell.

"I kinda would like you to try to struggle against it," a deep, threatening voice said. Fingers from a hand gripped the hair on the back of Ricky's head and guided his face to a deep-throated intake of an erect cock. "Suck it good or it won't go well for you," the voice said.

The guard hadn't gone far. He returned and put his hands through the bars and held Ricky's shoulders in place. One of his hands released the shoulder but only to take hold of his nightstick, run it down Ricky's back inside the waistband at his back, and into his cracker. The guard ran the club over the rim of Ricky's hole.

Ricky sucked the cock good—probably better than either the guard or Butch expected. That didn't keep him from being beaten down again after the cock was hard as a rock, bent over the bed in the room, and his ass eaten out while Butch worried Ricky's cock and squeezed his balls until Ricky's eyes watered.

Ricky instinctively struggled against the assault but only until Butch covered his body from behind as he was bent over the bed and forced himself inside Ricky's ass. Ricky had been opened but not well enough, and the invasion of the monster cock took some time, effort, and screaming. But once Butch was in, Ricky settled down for the plowing. Now he was in his element. He was addicted to dick, and there was a big club inside him. He didn't have to look at the guy fucking him. All he had to do was concentrate on the cock inside him.

To Butch's surprise Ricky settled right down, begged for the deep fuck he was given, grabbed at the frame of the other side of the bed to hold himself steady, and moved his pelvis with the fuck. He was beaten badly enough, though, to moan more from Butch continuing to prod and punch his body as from the size of the staff inside him. The staff inside him was just fine. To some extent Butch felt cheated. He and others had watched Ricky in lust, being frustrated that he was protected by Tate and assuming that Ricky only took Tate's cock for the protection. But now he was discovering that once a guy got his dick in Ricky, the little piece became a firecracker of want for the buried dick.

When Butch had come the first time, he stepped away from Ricky and the guard entered the cell, saddled up behind Ricky's bent-over body, and pushed the end of his nightstick inside Ricky's hole a couple of inches and fucked the young man with it. Getting bored with that, the guard mounted Ricky's ass himself and took his turn for a fuck, muttering in Ricky's ear, "This is in case you think the guards will come to your rescue if you wind up in prison again." Once skewered, Ricky enjoyed the guard's cocking too—the nightstick prodding, not so much.

Butch was ready again when the guard was finished and lifted and slammed Ricky down on his back on the bed and took him again in a missionary fuck, while he choked Ricky into submission with his fists around the young man's neck.

The ogre slept on top of Ricky, keeping him pinned to the bed, although he rolled over onto his side after an hour or so and a third fuck.

The fourth fuck, to Butch's surprise, was on Ricky. Butch woke up, on his back, with Ricky straddling his pelvis, impaling his ass on Butch's erection. Ricky leaned over and whispered, "Just stay hard for me," which, in amazement, Butch did, and Ricky rode him hard and in frenzied gyrations to another mutual load dump such as Butch had never experienced before.

When Ricky was pulled out of the cell the next morning, it was with a promise from Butch to be his protector if another conviction sent Ricky back to this prison.

When Ricky walked out of the prison gates to be greeted by his brother, Allen, and Allen's wife, Katie, his eye was blackened, his cheek was puffy, he was hobbling, and his arms, legs, and torso were bruised, but he was smiling, and an impressed medium-security prison guard was carrying his boxes and his suitcase.

* * * *

"That must be him now. He's wearing a clerical collar."

"That must be who?" Ricky asked his brother. They were at the barbecue in the Baileys' backyard. It had been nearly two weeks since Ricky's brother and his wife had brought Ricky home from the prison in Nottoway. Ricky had started his job with the landscaping company in Winchester, but he didn't see his probation officer until the next week. He was jittery, but it had nothing to do with drugs. He hadn't gotten into them enough in prison to be missing not having them now. He wouldn't have any trouble with that part of his probation at all. No, that wasn't what he was missing from his prison experience.

"It's Father Thomas—I think that's what his name is," Allen answered. "You have been referred to him for any adjustment counseling you might need. It's OK, Ricky, I told him that you—that we—aren't religious. He said that was OK. That he'd just be there to listen to any concern you have, knowing that, as a priest, he wouldn't be passing anything you had to say to anyone."

By then Father Thomas had reached them and Katie had brought the two small children out of the house and was setting the table for a picnic.

Father Thomas was a big man—big across the shoulders but thinner at the waist. He was a handsome devil with red hair and a ready smile. He could be a hockey player as much as a priest and he didn't talk preachy to them over the picnic lunch. He took a beer readily, something Ricky couldn't have, since he was on probation, but none of them made a big deal over that. Ricky wasn't quite old enough to be drinking beer anyway, and it was another thing he had no trouble giving up in his probation. There were other, stronger urges, that he was having trouble giving up—and looking at the robust priest, so comfortable in the situation and putting everyone to ease, didn't help Ricky fight his urges.