From MP to HMP

Despite my solicitor's caution against overconfidence I felt quite relaxed as I walked into court that morning. After all, I knew I was innocent, the victim of a rather crass conspiracy to destroy my career and reputation. At 41 I was seen as one of the coming men in politics -- recently elected Leader of the Opposition, and facing a government exhausted from more than a decade in office, riven by bitter internal splits, bereft of genuine talent, way behind in opinion polls and facing a general election within months at the most.

The charges against me were embezzling party funds to indulge in lucrative insider trading on the stock market. It was obvious that some jealous rival in my own party was involved in the frame-up -- when I found out who I'd nail them to the wall by their balls or tits -- but I reckoned it was inspired by a particular couple of twisted bastards in the government who would stop at nothing to cling onto power. The judge's summing up had been rather biased against me in my opinion, but no jury in their right minds could believe that an upstanding MP like me, with a golden future ahead of me, would be as stupid as the evidence suggested.

I therefore listened in stunned disbelief as his lordship intoned the words "Richard Charles Foster, you have been found guilty of all charges laid against you. I sentence you to three years' imprisonment, in an institution to be determined."

I was in a state of stunned disbelief as, in handcuffs, I was led into a claustrophobic black van, journalists banging on the sides and camera flashes visible through the small windows. Given my status, and the non-violent nature of the offences concerned, I expected to be sent to a low-security open prison. Clearly, though, I was to be made an example of, and my solicitor had told me I was to go to His Majesty's Prison Swanscombe, a medium security jail on the outskirts of London. I was still in shock as I passed through the various stages of admission, the interviews, the instructions, the humiliating strip search and check I had nothing hidden in my anal cavity...After all this I was handed my prison clothing, dressing in jogging bottoms tee shirt, and escorted into a wing of the prison.

As I passed through the prison block, with its smell of sweat, boiled cabbage and disinfectant, I was deeply aware of all eyes, warders and prisoners, turning to me, and some catcalls which I did my best to ignore. I was taken to a sparsely populated mess hall and served a rather tasteless and unappetising meal, then to my cell.

I had visited a few prisons when serving on a Parliamentary committee on penal reform, so I knew pretty much what to expect -- a small room with two beds, a desk supporting a small TV, a flush toilet in an alcove, a washbasin and, of course, a barred window. Laying on one of the beds was a tall, powerfully built white man of around 30, propped up reading a tabloid newspaper the cover of which was emblazoned with my face and the words 'Tricky Dicky'. He raised his eyes long enough to gaze contemptuously at me and muttered in a Manchester accent "No need to ask what you're in here for."

After that my new cell mate pretty much ignored me as I sat and tried to come to terms with the injustice I had suffered. He briefly switches on the TV with its limited channels, but as he tuned to a new channel on which I was the lead story I tried to shut it out. Physically drained and emotionally exhausted by what I had gone through I slept surprisingly soundly that first night.

The next day I began my formal induction to prison life, lectures about rules and regulations, jobs and education opportunities, meeting various department heads (chaplaincy, fitness and so on). I was told that I was to work as a library orderly, one of the cushiest jobs available. I was also told about prison visits -- unlikely in my case as all my former friends seemed to suddenly not want to know me, and my bovine wife, believing the lies about me rather than my own truth, had moved to her mother's home the day I was charged, taking our three-year old son with her.

I'd been told that as a high-profile inmate the warders would 'keep a special eye out' for me, but that didn't prove much help to me as I received a harsh introduction to the realities of prison life. I was browsing the books in the mostly deserted library when I suddenly felt myself grabbed by the shoulder and spun around, before a large fist smashed powerfully into my solar plexus. Stunned and feeling sick I staggered back against a bookshelf as a fellow prisoner jammed his forearm across my throat and, his face inches from mine, growled "I hate you politico ponces. Think you're something special do you?" I looked past him, hoping for help, but as one the few prisoners nearby turned their backs and carried on as if nothing was happening.

My assailant punched me again, driving all breath from my body, and gave me a vicious backhanded slap which knocked me to the floor. I dazedly saw one of his boots swing back to kick me...then another pair of boots appeared behind his. I looked up in astonishment as my cell mate, George, grabbed the thug by his hair bun and smashed him face first into the wall, delivering several punches to his kidneys. My saviour swung the man round to face him, punched him in the belly and then held some kind of homemade knife to his throat. Speaking loudly enough for those nearby to hear, George snarled at the clearly terrified thug, "Richard here's my celly, and no one messes with him. Got it? Put the word around, because if anything -- anything -- happens to him, it's you I'm coming for Billy."

As the other prisoner scuttled off and George helped me to my feet a screw -- I might as well get used to prison slang -- finally appeared. George told him firmly that neither of us could identify the attacker, then asked him to take me to sick bay. There a junior orderly dabbed antiseptic onto my bleeding lip, checked my ribs for serious damage and gave me some painkillers then sent me on my way.

Unsurprisingly I stuck close to George to the rest of the day. I'm only five-feet-eight, slim and pale, and it felt good to know I had a self-appointed protector. I gathered he was a former Manchester gang enforcer, insider for GBH -- grievous bodily harm -- and witness intimidation. When I expressed my surprise and gratitude for his intervention on my behalf he replied "I've always voted for your lot. It's a pity you got greedy and blew your leadership." In answer to my assertion that I was innocent he barked a laugh and answered "Yeah, right, you and every other bugger in here."

That night was swelteringly hot and, despite wearing just my underpants and laying on top of my bedclothes, I couldn't sleep. That was when my predicament really hit me, the way I'd been turfed out of one of the most prestigious workplaces in the country to a smelly, violent hellhole, surrounded by criminals, my reputation ruined. Surrendering to self-pity, I found myself sobbing in a way I hadn't since I was a child, my body shaking. After a few minutes, surprising me, George crossed the dark cell and sat on my bed. Also dressed only in his pants, he pulled me up into a sitting position, put a big arm around me and pulled me to him. Grateful for his sympathy I abandoned any last shreds of dignity and wept into his hairy chest.

George sat shushing and gently rocking me, stroking my back and my belly. I didn't notice at first when, after a few minutes, his fingers slipped inside my underpants and curled around my penis. I've never been attracted to men or the idea of a gay relationship, and I gasped in shock when his fist started to move rhythmically up and down my length. I wanted to tell him to stop, but nobody else had touched me there for weeks and my cock instantly stiffened to his touch. I found that within seconds my sobbing had turned into rapid, heavy breathing, and a gorgeous heat of arousal began to build in my body. Rationalising that there was nothing I could do to stop this much bigger man I gripped his shoulders and surrendered myself to his wanking me. The pace of his pumping of my cock increased and he began to flick his thumb across the tip. Moments later my hips jerked spasmodically and I hugged myself to him as I shot my load over his hand and into my pants. George removed his hand from them and pushed a sticky wet finger into my mouth. Obediently, I sucked my jizz from it.

I sat back, eyes screwed shut and attempting to control my breathing, then I felt George moving into a kneeling position on my bed. He lifted my legs and, still a little stunned by my orgasm, I was unresistant as he roughly pulled my underpants off me and placed himself between my legs. Leaning up on my elbows, I was astonished to see him dip his big shaggy head down, and a moment later his lips closed around my still semi-erect cock.

I've had a few blow jobs from women over the years, but I couldn't remember ever being as strongly aroused as this time as George raked his teeth lightly along my cock, his tongue measuring its length and swirling around it. Once again I was panting, and my hips thrust up towards him as I came again into his mouth, amazed at having managed two orgasms in such a short period.

He stood up and I turned over, my face to the wall, trying to get my head around what had just happened. Perhaps I was incredibly naïve, or a little befuddled by my orgasms, but when George laid down behind me and put an arm around me I just took it as him continuing to comfort me. It was only a minute or so later, when I felt his spittle-coated fingers pressing into my arse and reaming around that I realised with shock what was about to happen next. I tried to shuffle away but his strong hand gripped my hip and pulled me towards him. Hearing a whimper in my voice I begged him not to, but a moment later I felt a sharp pain as he began to push his big cock inside me.

I felt my anal cavity being painfully stretched as George pushed further into me, then he started thrusting at me, seemingly penetrating me a little deeper with every stroke, causing a hot flush to spread through my body. After perhaps 30 seconds he dragged me onto my knees, took both my hips in his hands, and started fucking me doggie-style, slamming into me to the hilt, his big balls slapping against me with each penetration. My bum felt as if it had been set alight, and I buried my face in my pillow, whimpering and gasping. It took probably two minutes before, with a huge exhalation of breath, he slammed into me for a final time and I felt a warm wetness filling my hole. With that George pushed me back into a lying position and whispered to me "You look after me in nick and I'll look after you", before snuggling his body close to me, his wilting cock resting against my buttocks. He spent the rest of the night sleeping on my bed; I didn't get a wink of sleep, terrified that he might decide to fuck me again. It wasn't until morning that I had the opportunity to wash out my sticky bumhole.

The following evening, as the cells were locked for the night, I was sitting nervously on the edge of my bed, wondering what might happen this night. George had been drowsing on his bed but he now stood and, wordlessly, slipped off his jogging pants and Y-fronts. He stepped across to stand in front of me, hands on hips, his big prick inches from my face. I didn't need to be told what he was expecting and I saw no alternative but to comply. Closing my eyes, I placed my hands lightly on his flanks and leaned forward to close my lips around the tip of his prick.

I had no idea how to give head to another man but I licked the length of his cock, slightly salty with sweat, then swirled my tongue around him. The cock felt strange in my mouth, like a bar of iron wrapped in warm soft leather, with a rubber pencil eraser attached to its tip. Remembering something he had done to me, I lightly bit into him and dragged my teeth from as far down the big stiff organ as I could reach to the tip, at which he growled with pleasure.

I could actually feel George's prick warming in my mouth as more blood pumped into it, and he placed a meaty paw behind my head and pushed me more firmly onto him, making me gag as the tip pressed against the opening of my throat. He began to rhythmically face-fuck me, and I realised, with shock, that my own cock was beginning to stiffen. I didn't mean to but, as he continued to rape my face, I found my hand meandering down to my groin and wrap around my shaft. As it became clear that George was about to cum I tried to take my mouth off him but he wouldn't let me, and a stream of hot, salty jizz spurted into my mouth. Moments later I shot off, my juice landing on his thigh and the underside of his balls. As he slowed his pumping of my mouth he murmured with a sly smile "Oh dear, you'd better lick that off me."

And so the pattern of our relationship as cellmates was established. We didn't fuck or suck every night but it was several times a week. During the day I stuck as close to George, or failing that a screw, as possible. I heard sniggered comments about "George's bitch" but I ignored them. Of course, I could have complained about George abusing me; but then not only would I lose his protection, I'd also be marked down as a grass and my future lifespan could probably be counted in days. Besides, it was better than what would have happened if some of the of the psychopathic animals in that place had got hold of me without George's protection; so, abandoning my dignity and self-respect, I utterly debased myself. I can't say I really enjoyed the situation (although I did find I had a taste for George's cock), but I got used to it, I learned what he liked, and it became easier as my bumhole relaxed and became more able to accommodate his size.

That's how it was for the next few months, as my appeal against sentence failed, my old party swept into power into an election, and the bastards failed to even acknowledge my letters asking for clemency. Then came news that shocked me -- George was granted parole. He was to leave the nick in two weeks' time, and I became increasingly nervous as the day approached.

One afternoon in his last week I was relaxing on my bed when George walked in and told me he owed a mate a favour. I didn't understand what he meant until a moment later another prisoner stepped into the small room. Nicknamed Kong by his fellow inmates, he really did resemble a gorilla -- short, covered in black hair, bow-legged with long arms. I stared in astonishment as, grinning, he stripped off, while George returned to the corridor to keep watch. I tried to object buy didn't really have a chance -- anyway, what good would it have done to lose George's favour in his final days. Kong dragged my clothes off me, leaving me only in my socks, turned me on my back and thrust me legs into the air. He fucked me from the front, my balls squashed against his belly, his stale breath in my face as he panted with each thrust into me. Even though he wasn't as big as George he was much rougher and I felt quite sore when he finally pulled out. I felt betrayed by my protector and curled into a foetal ball, tears of humiliation rolling down my cheeks.

A couple of days before George left I was sitting at my desk in the library, fretting about my fate once he was gone, one of the other prisoners approached me. Known as Tiger, he was a Jamaican guy built like a barn door, way over six feet tall, almost as wide at the shoulder, with a barrel chest and biceps the size of melons. He was well known on the prison wing and had a fearsome reputation, having done several stints of solitary for violence, and even the screws seemed noticeably nervous around him. I had helped him write a few letters home since I'd been convicted so got on reasonably well with him.

Standing behind my chair, Tiger rumbled in a voice like a volcano growling, "I hear you're going to have a vacancy in your cell...a hole to fill, kind of thing." He chuckled at his own apparent punning wit. Placing his giant hands on my shoulders, and leaning his head close to my ear, he continued quietly "I'll bet, with your influence, if you spoke to the governor you could get anyone you like in there with you." Leaning even closer his moustachioed lips brushed my ear as he went on "I could do with a change of scene in here, a new...friend to room with." I stifled a gasp as his warm tongue traced the contours of my ear and, in case his meaning wasn't clear enough, one of his hands slipped down inside my T-shirt and stroked across my chest before his fingers tweaked one of my nipples.

I've just returned from a meeting with the governor, and Tiger will be moving into my cell the day George moves out. I'm not proud of myself -- far from it -- but I've learned that if you want to survive in this nick you have to do what you have to do.