Date: Fri, 28 Sep 2012 22:46:59 -0400
From: d.a. w <daw62@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Professor's Practicum Chapers 13 and 14

I hope you enjoy.

daw

CHAPTER 13

Suddenly there was this loud, irritating bell.  I wondered, "What the hell!
I don't have a bell like that. Who's come to my house to make this
outrageous racket?"

Then I really did wake up. Above me was a sheet of steel. Under my back was
a slick, hard piece of plastic. My chest and legs were buried under
something harsh and heavy. I looked down past my feet, and I saw a wall of
bars. Around me, I heard piss splashing, shit dropping, toilets
flushing. It was like I'd been locked in a restroom for the night.  Then I
remembered--I was in prison.

I could hear Stretch moving in the bunk below. "You need to piss bad,
fish?" "No sir," I replied, acknowledging Stretch's superiority and
seniority in my new home. "Good. I'm pretty regular. I piss and shit first
thing. Senior man in the cell," he sighed with satisfaction, "gets first
use of the toilet. You keep in the rack until you hear this toilet
flush. Then you turn over and climb down and do whatever you need to
do."When it was my turn, I just needed to piss. I realized that yesterday I
had survived on only one so-called meal. I had missed breakfast in the
jail, as we left before it was served. During what should have been lunch
time, I had gone through the hell of processing, and far from being fed, I
had experienced just the opposite. My alimentary canal had been thoroughly
cleaned out, and I had had to experience without protection having fingers
and thermometers and other probes stuck up my ass.


Finally I had had dinner here, but I had been able to eat very little. My
stomach was growling, but remembering yesterday's meal, I was not looking
forward too much to breakfast.  When I snapped out of my mental review of
yesterday, I saw that Stretch was staring at me, which wasn't a surprise,
since I was just standing at the toilet, my dick in my hand, looking down
at it and the liquids stinking in the can.  Right then, I was thinking
about how weird my dick looked, sticking out that way, without any hair to
protect it."Well," he said, "I seen fish do a lotta strange things while
they're learning to be a prisoner, but that pose is a new one. I guess
you're in some other world over there, looking into the toilet and holding
your own dick.

"Snapping back into this hellish new world, all I could do was hurriedly
stuff my cock back into my boxers, and reach for my stack of browns. Until
you put on your browns, you can pretend to yourself, for a minute, that you
just stopped in to use the can, or that you are one of those nice,
well-meaning visitors like I used to be, just getting to know an offender
or two, or that you are on your way to the showers in some primitive kind
of gym. But when you put on your browns, you know that this is a prison,
and you are a prisoner, and this is your prison uniform. Now you are one of
the offenders that you are getting to know, and this is one of your ways of
doing that. Pulling the brown shirt that says INMATE down over your chest
. . .

sticking your legs into those brown inmate trousers--which is easy, since
there's no belt to worry about, just elastic . . . pulling them up over
your cock . . . then looking down at your body, the way it is now
. . . Yeah, you think, this is a convict.

I am a convict.  If I were back at my own house, the house I owned, I'd be
looking through my wardrobe for a shirt and slacks that would complement
each other and project a quiet dignity.  I would never dream of wearing a
shirt of exactly the same color as my slacks.  Or wearing thick, clodhopper
shoes.  Or being shaved bald.  This morning, however, I didn't have to
choose my clothing. It had all been done for me, and the color scheme was
simple--it was completely the same, top and bottom.  It projected
insignificance.  It projected a dumb subservience.  It projected an ability
to line up and be caged with all the other offenders who were wearing the
same color of dirt."Yeah," I said. "I guess yesterday was almost too much
for me. What comes next in this entrance to the inferno?" That was my
oblique reference to Dante, which I didn't expect Stretch to
recognize. "Well," he said, with that same quizzical look, "this is about
as close to hell as anybody would like to get."There was something about
the way he said it that made me feel again that there was much more to
Stretch than he ever let show."What comes next?" I said. "The Count."
"Really?  They really think one of us did a Star Trek and beamed out of
here last night?"Stretch gave me his half smile again.  "Must be. I never
figured any reason for it myself, and that reason is as good as any."

He was right. Now the loudspeakers were on again. "INMATES WILL STAND AT
THE BARS AND RESPOND TO THE COUNT!"Stretch took the more open space next to
the toilet. I moved to the narrow space between the end of the bunk and the
bars.  I heard the cadence as it approached us.

"B15, SOUND OFF!" "B16, SOUND OFF!"  I wondered why it had to be shouted.

The officer could only be four, maybe five feet from the bars of the cage,
even if he were standing by the guard rails at the edge of the walkway.
However, I was coming to understand that if some action was the rational
and reasonable one, that would be the one that would be totally rejected by
prison authorities.


"116198 SIR!" a convict shouted back. "116198 present for count," an
officer repeated, bored and surly, as if any time he spent saying it was so
much time he couldn't spend smoking and texting. But inmates were not
permitted to be bored or surly. They had to respond with alacrity.

"117156 SIR!""117156 present for count."Once I got the idea of the count, I
fell back in my world of thoughts. How would I be using my own time right
now, if I wasn't stuck to the bars, waiting to shout my number? I'd be
eating my cereal and pouring myself a second glass of orange juice. I'd be
going over my schedule for the day, planning my appointments.

Seminar, office hours, student advisees, maybe an interview with the
newspaper . .

."B22! SOUND OFF!"Suddenly an officer's uniform appeared on the other side
of the bars, blocking the light in front of me. The face on top of it did
not look happy. Another officer stood in front of Stretch. That face didn't
look happy either."B22 !" bellowed the first officer, reminding me of my
address. "Report for count!""100914 SIR!" Stretch dutifully replied."100914
present for count," the second officer intoned as he marked something on
his clipboard."117213 . . . SIR!" I shouted, trying to sound as loud and
confident as the others I had heard respond.I wondered whether making his
response as loud as he could was the one way a prisoner could make himself
feel almost a citizen. For that moment, anyway."117213 present for count."
The officer noted my indication that this piece of state property was
stored where required by the inventory list.We had performed to
specifications, although we had to stand by the bars until the count was
complete.  Stretch smiled at me and said in a carefully low voice, "Nice
job kid. Thought you were gonna lose it there for a second.""Yeah, almost,"
I said.  But I felt pride that I had not brought dishonor to our cell."A11!
Sound off!""C28! Sound off!"I became more aware that the scene going on
down our range was being repeated above and below us.  I looked to see if
we were dismissed, but Stretch wasn't moving and so neither did I.  We
remained facing the bars. I soon noticed that I'd gone back instinctively
to the caged man's behavior--I was gripping the bars with both hands and
peering out between them, as if there were anything on the other side that
I wanted to see.

What I saw was a lead-pipe railing, then an empty space-- the drop-off to
the floor below--then a concrete wall with a line of thin windows, too thin
and too full of bars to make out anything except the greenish color of a
field at some indeterminate distance from the bars that were pressing
against my chest. If a camera man came by, he would have a perfect picture
of a Locked Down Convict.Finally I heard the shout: "TIER A COUNT CLEAR."
Then another: "TIER B COUNT CLEAR." THEN ANOTHER: "TIER C COUNT
CLEAR.""Inmates prepare for mess!" was the order that boomed from the
speaker system.

I looked at Stretch for some idea of what that order meant."We have fifteen
minutes to shave and if you ain't pissed and shit before Count, you gotta
get that done.  I shave first."I sat on my second floor bunk and watched
while Stretch used the cold water to shave.  I noticed he had shaving
cream.  He finished his preparations by making sure his brown trousers were
straight and his white tee was straight and showed correctly underneath his
brown pullover shirt.  I'd noticed that his number was inked in, small but
visible, on his shirttail.  Now I noticed it on the inside of the waistband
on his trousers. "Oh yeah," he said. "Today New York will come by with a
clothing marker. He'll tell you to have all clothing marked by the next
time you're out on tier. It's so your clothes don't get lost in the wash."
He paused. "I'll help," he added.Once again, I was thankful for one decent
person in my new world. The more I thought about Stretch, the more I
decided he was actually one of the better people I had known in my
life. Even though I had worked with many inmates, I had to admit to myself
that I did feel superior to all of them, both as a person and as somebody
who was "giving of himself" to others "in need."  In need of what I had.

By this I smugly meant my superior position in society and in intellectual
prowess.

I told myself that these convicts had shown themselves unable to resist
base impulses, whereas I was built of sterner stuff.Now I realized that
Stretch was superior to me in almost every way possible.  I told myself
that in six months, when I escaped from this hell, I would devote myself to
helping him. I couldn't do so personally, not without giving myself away,
but I could certainly spend the funds and call in favors to be sure he had
superior legal representation, would receive every chance for parole as
soon as possible, and would have job opportunities after release.  I owed
him, and I resolved that I would repay.  As I was thinking of the nobility
of Stretch, New York came to our cage with a paper bag. "Commissary for
117213," he said, glancing briefly at me. "Yo Stretch," he said, and
smiled."Whazzup," Stretch acknowledged. We were three men in brown, but one
of us was still on the outside of the recognized group of experienced
inmates, and that was me."I haven't ordered any commissary," I said,
reminding the porter of my existence. "You didn't have to," he
replied. "This order was placed by the state. It's your shower shoes, your
shave cream, your soap. All stuff like that."I looked into the bag. Yeah,
there was a bar of soap, a little can of shaving cream, an extra pair of
boxers, and a pair of rubber flip flops."I have no money on my books to pay
for this" was my irritated reply. The last thing I needed was to get caught
stealing something. I didn't mind not shaving for a few days, if that was
allowed--although looking at New York's beardless face implied that it
probably wasn't.This is when Stretch chimed in. "You remember that ten
bucks the state put into your commissary fund?""Yeah," I replied.Stretch
smiled broadly. "Well lemme tell you the state scam. Some dude in the
legislature, probly white"--this caught a laugh from New York, who was
standing with his hands on his elbows, turning from time to time to see if
the officer at the desk could see him hanging out with his buddy--"some
dude in the legislature somehow got to wondering about us inmates.""Yeah?"
New York sneered."Yeah. Don't know why. Maybe one a these
. . . humanitarians. So he thought, maybe, just maybe, you get some new
fish in here, and he's comin' through all bald and naked and shit, and this
fish ain't got no cash.  No cash, no relatives or shit like that, no
commissary.""Yeah, that could happen," New York joked."So, this dude thinks
that possibly, just possibly, this might lead to the fish buyin' all his
. . . shaving cream by selling `sexual favors.'"

"No shit! That couldn't never happen here!" He leaned in toward the bars,
cracking up and trying to keep the officers below from noticing."No, it
couldn't," Stretch continued. "But anyway, that's what these ignorant
honkies think. So what he does, he gets the state to give every fish a
brand new $10 credit in the commissary. Which is cool, right? We should all
be on our knees, thankin' this honky.  So then what happens?  The DOC just
reduces what they give us in those little bitty tiny little Induction
Packages, which is what they call your toothbrush, fish. And they use the
$10 to pay for your shower shoes. And so, like always, the con gets
screwed, and the screws get all the money."I was mad; but Stretch and New
York were laughing like crazy over the state scam.

That was it, all right. For that minute, I thought I was still on the
outside. I was the outraged citizen, preparing to write a firm letter to
his state representative. But they were on the inside, knowing what all
that meant."Oh man! He seen me! I'm fucked!" New York said, turning back
from another glance at the desk below. "I'm outta here!" With his hands
still holding his elbows, he strode on down the tier. Right away, the
loudspeaker started ordering the tiers to march to breakfast.The day in
this warehouse of offenders awaiting assignment to their long term place of
punishment went pretty much as I had already experienced. We went to mess
three times--"breakfast," "lunch," and "dinner." I was grilled on each of
these occasions, and got myself identified as an arrogant son of a
bitch. But I didn't take Stretch's advice about complaining to an officer
about my mixed-race cell assignment. That afternoon, New York came by with
a marking pen, and Stretch showed me where to write my numbers on my
uniform. The trick was to write them large enough so some laundry geek
would see them but small enough so you might not notice them yourself.
"Next shower day, they'll hand you your change of browns, and you can have
the pleasure of doing it all over again."  Yeah, pleasure.  Every time I
wrote my new name, no matter how small I wrote it, I was writing it deeper
and deeper into myself. On my third full day as an RDC con, everything
began as usual. We got through breakfast and finally I found a "white"
table where my fellow diners just asked the normal stuff...who are
you...where are you from...when are you getting out.

That's about all that can be done in 10 minutes, besides shoveling prison
"food"

into your mouth. Breakfast was some mysterious round meat wad, with yellow
something that might at some time been a part of an egg, and a piece of
bread that could have been used as a component of a building project. This
was "toast." Thus my official breakfast was sausage round, scrambled eggs,
toast and coffee or orange juice... I forgot to include the orange
juice. It was in a little, and I mean maybe two inches high, plastic cup
with some sort of metal top, which I could only get off by putting it in my
teeth and pulling. This action amused my table companions. After breakfast
we returned to our cage and got ready for inspection. I was with the
program now, and knew that my duty in our apartment was to be sure the
toilet and sink would pass inspection. I had no idea what would happen if
we did not pass inspection, but I knew that officers would have found some
way to make this awful place even worse as a consequence. My chief
motivation was not to cause Stretch to be disappointed or dissatisfied with
me. He clearly saved me from having an even worse time than I was having
now.After inspection, which we passed because no comment or criticism was
made, I was sitting at the back of the cell, writing more of my
observations on some sheets of paper that Stretch had given me. Suddenly
there was an officer at the front of our cage."Offender 100914," he
shouted, as if Stretch was on the far end of a football field.

"Pack up your shit. You are being transferred to your place of
incarceration. Here's your bag. You got five minutes." He pushed in a white
plastic sack. It was like the white plastic sacks I used to line my kitchen
garbage pail. I was devastated.  I relied on Stretch for
everything--companionship, safety, and just as much of a feeling of
security as I thought I could have in here.  Stretch looked down at me, I
think with a bit of sadness. "Sorry boy. I guess you're on your own now. Be
careful." He didn't say anything more; he just went around the cell and
collected his "personals." His bag was still practically empty when the
guard came back. This time he was joined by two other guards and a little
parade of three other offenders. These were linked together onto one chain,
a chain that had a set of handcuffs every two feet or so. It was just like
the chain and cuffs I had worn on my trip to the RDC. Stretch knew the
drill and as soon as the order to "Cuff up" was given he held the plastic
bag in one hand and backed up to the open door to our cell.

Very efficiently his wrists were inserted in one of those sets of cuffs,
and his hands were locked behind his back. Now he was part of the chain of
convicts which, as soon as he cleared the door, began its journey to his
permanent home. Wherever that was--nobody said.I watched as long as I could
as Stretch and the others were marched along B Tier.

They stopped at two other cells, and two other cons were attached to the
chain.

Then with all six cuffs secured around the wrists of all six convicts, the
group shuffled away, on the first stage of their journey out of the
Reception and Diagnostic Center to their final place of
imprisonment. Stretch sort of looked back once; then they were gone. I
repeated in my mind that when my six months were over, Charles Wilson,
100914, would be the object of my generous support of his canteen--I would
review his case, his trial, and every aspect of the investigation. I would
use my own knowledge and the knowledge of the best criminal and appeal
lawyers I knew, people I would pay to find a way to reduce or overturn his
sentence, and if there was no possibility...I did know there was a
possibility that Stretch had done the crime... then I would be sure that
his records would be examined for any clemency and early parole he could be
given.  AND once Charles was out, he WOULD have a job, a place to live, and
as much support as I could give him to stay out of prison in the future. I
made this vow with as much emotion...no, perhaps more emotion...than I had
ever brought to any resolution before this.

At lunch I was so depressed that I ate even less than usual. When I sat
down at a white table with only one other inmate there, he looked over at
me and to my surprise said, "Saw you lost Stretch this morning.""Yeah. I am
really bummed."I realized my reply was not inmate quality. It had no
profanity, vulgarity, or macho bravado.

The guy then amazed me with, "Stretch was a good guy. Not many in here have
any honor. He did."That was it. Stretch was recognized by other experienced
inmates as an extraordinary man.  After trying to eat something, I just sat
there. The others who came after the inmate who made the original comment
all nodded at me, but said nothing. I began to think that maybe there was
some "honor among thieves"...or at least some imprisoned men.The bell
rang. I stood up and stuffed my tray into the rack. Then I went over to the
line that was forming to march us back to our cells, where we would be
caged for another six hours. We trudged up the stairs, stomping with our
right foot first, as for some reason we were required to do. I marched in
line, hands on my elbows, stomping along with the others.CHAPTER 13
Suddenly there was this loud, irritating bell.  I wondered, "What the hell!
I don't have a bell like that. Who's come to my house to make this
outrageous racket?"

Then I really did wake up. Above me was a sheet of steel. Under my back was
a slick, hard piece of plastic. My chest and legs were buried under
something harsh and heavy. I looked down past my feet, and I saw a wall of
bars. Around me, I heard piss splashing, shit dropping, toilets
flushing. It was like I'd been locked in a restroom for the night.  Then I
remembered--I was in prison.

I could hear Stretch moving in the bunk below. "You need to piss bad,
fish?" "No sir," I replied, acknowledging Stretch's superiority and
seniority in my new home. "Good. I'm pretty regular. I piss and shit first
thing. Senior man in the cell," he sighed with satisfaction, "gets first
use of the toilet. You keep in the rack until you hear this toilet
flush. Then you turn over and climb down and do whatever you need to
do."When it was my turn, I just needed to piss. I realized that yesterday I
had survived on only one so-called meal. I had missed breakfast in the
jail, as we left before it was served. During what should have been lunch
time, I had gone through the hell of processing, and far from being fed, I
had experienced just the opposite. My alimentary canal had been thoroughly
cleaned out, and I had had to experience without protection having fingers
and thermometers and other probes stuck up my ass.


Finally I had had dinner here, but I had been able to eat very little. My
stomach was growling, but remembering yesterday's meal, I was not looking
forward too much to breakfast.  When I snapped out of my mental review of
yesterday, I saw that Stretch was staring at me, which wasn't a surprise,
since I was just standing at the toilet, my dick in my hand, looking down
at it and the liquids stinking in the can.  Right then, I was thinking
about how weird my dick looked, sticking out that way, without any hair to
protect it."Well," he said, "I seen fish do a lotta strange things while
they're learning to be a prisoner, but that pose is a new one. I guess
you're in some other world over there, looking into the toilet and holding
your own dick."Snapping back into this hellish new world, all I could do
was hurriedly stuff my cock back into my boxers, and reach for my stack of
browns. Until you put on your browns, you can pretend to yourself, for a
minute, that you just stopped in to use the can, or that you are one of
those nice, well-meaning visitors like I used to be, just getting to know
an offender or two, or that you are on your way to the showers in some
primitive kind of gym. But when you put on your browns, you know that this
is a prison, and you are a prisoner, and this is your prison uniform. Now
you are one of the offenders that you are getting to know, and this is one
of your ways of doing that. Pulling the brown shirt that says INMATE down
over your chest . . .

sticking your legs into those brown inmate trousers--which is easy, since
there's no belt to worry about, just elastic . . . pulling them up over
your cock . . . then looking down at your body, the way it is now
. . . Yeah, you think, this is a convict.

I am a convict.  If I were back at my own house, the house I owned, I'd be
looking through my wardrobe for a shirt and slacks that would complement
each other and project a quiet dignity.  I would never dream of wearing a
shirt of exactly the same color as my slacks.  Or wearing thick, clodhopper
shoes.  Or being shaved bald.  This morning, however, I didn't have to
choose my clothing. It had all been done for me, and the color scheme was
simple--it was completely the same, top and bottom.  It projected
insignificance.  It projected a dumb subservience.  It projected an ability
to line up and be caged with all the other offenders who were wearing the
same color of dirt."Yeah," I said. "I guess yesterday was almost too much
for me. What comes next in this entrance to the inferno?" That was my
oblique reference to Dante, which I didn't expect Stretch to
recognize. "Well," he said, with that same quizzical look, "this is about
as close to hell as anybody would like to get."There was something about
the way he said it that made me feel again that there was much more to
Stretch than he ever let show."What comes next?" I said. "The Count."
"Really?  They really think one of us did a Star Trek and beamed out of
here last night?"Stretch gave me his half smile again.  "Must be. I never
figured any reason for it myself, and that reason is as good as any."

He was right. Now the loudspeakers were on again. "INMATES WILL STAND AT
THE BARS AND RESPOND TO THE COUNT!"Stretch took the more open space next to
the toilet. I moved to the narrow space between the end of the bunk and the
bars.  I heard the cadence as it approached us.

"B15, SOUND OFF!" "B16, SOUND OFF!"  I wondered why it had to be shouted.

The officer could only be four, maybe five feet from the bars of the cage,
even if he were standing by the guard rails at the edge of the walkway.
However, I was coming to understand that if some action was the rational
and reasonable one, that would be the one that would be totally rejected by
prison authorities.


"116198 SIR!" a convict shouted back. "116198 present for count," an
officer repeated, bored and surly, as if any time he spent saying it was so
much time he couldn't spend smoking and texting. But inmates were not
permitted to be bored or surly. They had to respond with alacrity.

"117156 SIR!""117156 present for count."Once I got the idea of the count, I
fell back in my world of thoughts. How would I be using my own time right
now, if I wasn't stuck to the bars, waiting to shout my number? I'd be
eating my cereal and pouring myself a second glass of orange juice. I'd be
going over my schedule for the day, planning my appointments.

Seminar, office hours, student advisees, maybe an interview with the
newspaper . .

."B22! SOUND OFF!"Suddenly an officer's uniform appeared on the other side
of the bars, blocking the light in front of me. The face on top of it did
not look happy. Another officer stood in front of Stretch. That face didn't
look happy either."B22 !" bellowed the first officer, reminding me of my
address. "Report for count!""100914 SIR!" Stretch dutifully replied."100914
present for count," the second officer intoned as he marked something on
his clipboard."117213 . . . SIR!" I shouted, trying to sound as loud and
confident as the others I had heard respond.I wondered whether making his
response as loud as he could was the one way a prisoner could make himself
feel almost a citizen. For that moment, anyway."117213 present for count."
The officer noted my indication that this piece of state property was
stored where required by the inventory list.We had performed to
specifications, although we had to stand by the bars until the count was
complete.  Stretch smiled at me and said in a carefully low voice, "Nice
job kid. Thought you were gonna lose it there for a second.""Yeah, almost,"
I said.  But I felt pride that I had not brought dishonor to our cell."A11!
Sound off!""C28! Sound off!"I became more aware that the scene going on
down our range was being repeated above and below us.  I looked to see if
we were dismissed, but Stretch wasn't moving and so neither did I.  We
remained facing the bars. I soon noticed that I'd gone back instinctively
to the caged man's behavior--I was gripping the bars with both hands and
peering out between them, as if there were anything on the other side that
I wanted to see.

What I saw was a lead-pipe railing, then an empty space-- the drop-off to
the floor below--then a concrete wall with a line of thin windows, too thin
and too full of bars to make out anything except the greenish color of a
field at some indeterminate distance from the bars that were pressing
against my chest. If a camera man came by, he would have a perfect picture
of a Locked Down Convict.Finally I heard the shout: "TIER A COUNT CLEAR."
Then another: "TIER B COUNT CLEAR." THEN ANOTHER: "TIER C COUNT
CLEAR.""Inmates prepare for mess!" was the order that boomed from the
speaker system.

I looked at Stretch for some idea of what that order meant."We have fifteen
minutes to shave and if you ain't pissed and shit before Count, you gotta
get that done.  I shave first."I sat on my second floor bunk and watched
while Stretch used the cold water to shave.  I noticed he had shaving
cream.  He finished his preparations by making sure his brown trousers were
straight and his white tee was straight and showed correctly underneath his
brown pullover shirt.  I'd noticed that his number was inked in, small but
visible, on his shirttail.  Now I noticed it on the inside of the waistband
on his trousers. "Oh yeah," he said. "Today New York will come by with a
clothing marker. He'll tell you to have all clothing marked by the next
time you're out on tier. It's so your clothes don't get lost in the wash."
He paused. "I'll help," he added.Once again, I was thankful for one decent
person in my new world. The more I thought about Stretch, the more I
decided he was actually one of the better people I had known in my
life. Even though I had worked with many inmates, I had to admit to myself
that I did feel superior to all of them, both as a person and as somebody
who was "giving of himself" to others "in need."  In need of what I had.

By this I smugly meant my superior position in society and in intellectual
prowess.

I told myself that these convicts had shown themselves unable to resist
base impulses, whereas I was built of sterner stuff.Now I realized that
Stretch was superior to me in almost every way possible.  I told myself
that in six months, when I escaped from this hell, I would devote myself to
helping him. I couldn't do so personally, not without giving myself away,
but I could certainly spend the funds and call in favors to be sure he had
superior legal representation, would receive every chance for parole as
soon as possible, and would have job opportunities after release.  I owed
him, and I resolved that I would repay.  As I was thinking of the nobility
of Stretch, New York came to our cage with a paper bag. "Commissary for
117213," he said, glancing briefly at me. "Yo Stretch," he said, and
smiled."Whazzup," Stretch acknowledged. We were three men in brown, but one
of us was still on the outside of the recognized group of experienced
inmates, and that was me."I haven't ordered any commissary," I said,
reminding the porter of my existence. "You didn't have to," he
replied. "This order was placed by the state. It's your shower shoes, your
shave cream, your soap. All stuff like that."I looked into the bag. Yeah,
there was a bar of soap, a little can of shaving cream, an extra pair of
boxers, and a pair of rubber flip flops."I have no money on my books to pay
for this" was my irritated reply. The last thing I needed was to get caught
stealing something. I didn't mind not shaving for a few days, if that was
allowed--although looking at New York's beardless face implied that it
probably wasn't.This is when Stretch chimed in. "You remember that ten
bucks the state put into your commissary fund?""Yeah," I replied.Stretch
smiled broadly. "Well lemme tell you the state scam. Some dude in the
legislature, probly white"--this caught a laugh from New York, who was
standing with his hands on his elbows, turning from time to time to see if
the officer at the desk could see him hanging out with his buddy--"some
dude in the legislature somehow got to wondering about us inmates.""Yeah?"
New York sneered."Yeah. Don't know why. Maybe one a these
. . . humanitarians. So he thought, maybe, just maybe, you get some new
fish in here, and he's comin' through all bald and naked and shit, and this
fish ain't got no cash.  No cash, no relatives or shit like that, no
commissary.""Yeah, that could happen," New York joked."So, this dude thinks
that possibly, just possibly, this might lead to the fish buyin' all his
. . . shaving cream by selling `sexual favors.'"

"No shit! That couldn't never happen here!" He leaned in toward the bars,
cracking up and trying to keep the officers below from noticing."No, it
couldn't," Stretch continued. "But anyway, that's what these ignorant
honkies think. So what he does, he gets the state to give every fish a
brand new $10 credit in the commissary. Which is cool, right? We should all
be on our knees, thankin' this honky.  So then what happens?  The DOC just
reduces what they give us in those little bitty tiny little Induction
Packages, which is what they call your toothbrush, fish. And they use the
$10 to pay for your shower shoes. And so, like always, the con gets
screwed, and the screws get all the money."I was mad; but Stretch and New
York were laughing like crazy over the state scam.

That was it, all right. For that minute, I thought I was still on the
outside. I was the outraged citizen, preparing to write a firm letter to
his state representative. But they were on the inside, knowing what all
that meant."Oh man! He seen me! I'm fucked!" New York said, turning back
from another glance at the desk below. "I'm outta here!" With his hands
still holding his elbows, he strode on down the tier. Right away, the
loudspeaker started ordering the tiers to march to breakfast.The day in
this warehouse of offenders awaiting assignment to their long term place of
punishment went pretty much as I had already experienced. We went to mess
three times--"breakfast," "lunch," and "dinner." I was grilled on each of
these occasions, and got myself identified as an arrogant son of a
bitch. But I didn't take Stretch's advice about complaining to an officer
about my mixed-race cell assignment. That afternoon, New York came by with
a marking pen, and Stretch showed me where to write my numbers on my
uniform. The trick was to write them large enough so some laundry geek
would see them but small enough so you might not notice them yourself.
"Next shower day, they'll hand you your change of browns, and you can have
the pleasure of doing it all over again."  Yeah, pleasure.  Every time I
wrote my new name, no matter how small I wrote it, I was writing it deeper
and deeper into myself. On my third full day as an RDC con, everything
began as usual. We got through breakfast and finally I found a "white"
table where my fellow diners just asked the normal stuff...who are
you...where are you from...when are you getting out.

That's about all that can be done in 10 minutes, besides shoveling prison
"food"

into your mouth. Breakfast was some mysterious round meat wad, with yellow
something that might at some time been a part of an egg, and a piece of
bread that could have been used as a component of a building project. This
was "toast." Thus my official breakfast was sausage round, scrambled eggs,
toast and coffee or orange juice... I forgot to include the orange
juice. It was in a little, and I mean maybe two inches high, plastic cup
with some sort of metal top, which I could only get off by putting it in my
teeth and pulling. This action amused my table companions. After breakfast
we returned to our cage and got ready for inspection. I was with the
program now, and knew that my duty in our apartment was to be sure the
toilet and sink would pass inspection. I had no idea what would happen if
we did not pass inspection, but I knew that officers would have found some
way to make this awful place even worse as a consequence. My chief
motivation was not to cause Stretch to be disappointed or dissatisfied with
me. He clearly saved me from having an even worse time than I was having
now.After inspection, which we passed because no comment or criticism was
made, I was sitting at the back of the cell, writing more of my
observations on some sheets of paper that Stretch had given me. Suddenly
there was an officer at the front of our cage."Offender 100914," he
shouted, as if Stretch was on the far end of a football field.

"Pack up your shit. You are being transferred to your place of
incarceration. Here's your bag. You got five minutes." He pushed in a white
plastic sack. It was like the white plastic sacks I used to line my kitchen
garbage pail. I was devastated.  I relied on Stretch for
everything--companionship, safety, and just as much of a feeling of
security as I thought I could have in here.  Stretch looked down at me, I
think with a bit of sadness. "Sorry boy. I guess you're on your own now. Be
careful." He didn't say anything more; he just went around the cell and
collected his "personals." His bag was still practically empty when the
guard came back. This time he was joined by two other guards and a little
parade of three other offenders. These were linked together onto one chain,
a chain that had a set of handcuffs every two feet or so. It was just like
the chain and cuffs I had worn on my trip to the RDC. Stretch knew the
drill and as soon as the order to "Cuff up" was given he held the plastic
bag in one hand and backed up to the open door to our cell.

Very efficiently his wrists were inserted in one of those sets of cuffs,
and his hands were locked behind his back. Now he was part of the chain of
convicts which, as soon as he cleared the door, began its journey to his
permanent home. Wherever that was--nobody said.I watched as long as I could
as Stretch and the others were marched along B Tier.

They stopped at two other cells, and two other cons were attached to the
chain.

Then with all six cuffs secured around the wrists of all six convicts, the
group shuffled away, on the first stage of their journey out of the
Reception and Diagnostic Center to their final place of
imprisonment. Stretch sort of looked back once; then they were gone. I
repeated in my mind that when my six months were over, Charles Wilson,
100914, would be the object of my generous support of his canteen--I would
review his case, his trial, and every aspect of the investigation. I would
use my own knowledge and the knowledge of the best criminal and appeal
lawyers I knew, people I would pay to find a way to reduce or overturn his
sentence, and if there was no possibility...I did know there was a
possibility that Stretch had done the crime... then I would be sure that
his records would be examined for any clemency and early parole he could be
given.  AND once Charles was out, he WOULD have a job, a place to live, and
as much support as I could give him to stay out of prison in the future. I
made this vow with as much emotion...no, perhaps more emotion...than I had
ever brought to any resolution before this.

At lunch I was so depressed that I ate even less than usual. When I sat
down at a white table with only one other inmate there, he looked over at
me and to my surprise said, "Saw you lost Stretch this morning.""Yeah. I am
really bummed."I realized my reply was not inmate quality. It had no
profanity, vulgarity, or macho bravado.

The guy then amazed me with, "Stretch was a good guy. Not many in here have
any honor. He did."That was it. Stretch was recognized by other experienced
inmates as an extraordinary man.  After trying to eat something, I just sat
there. The others who came after the inmate who made the original comment
all nodded at me, but said nothing. I began to think that maybe there was
some "honor among thieves"...or at least some imprisoned men.The bell
rang. I stood up and stuffed my tray into the rack. Then I went over to the
line that was forming to march us back to our cells, where we would be
caged for another six hours. We trudged up the stairs, stomping with our
right foot first, as for some reason we were required to do. I marched in
line, hands on my elbows, stomping along with the others.CHAPTER 14Back at
B22, I stood inside and waited until I heard the door of bars slide shut,
locking me inside my cage again, but this time alone.  I stood there, and
then for the first time sat on the steel seat by the wall. I sat there and
felt sorry for myself all over again.  I alternated moping and looking
through the bars, as if looking would suddenly bring Stretch back. I knew
that would never happen. Then I heard the cat calls and shouted comments
announcing that a new batch of fresh made state prisoners had arrived. I
went to the bars and looked down the tier.

I heard all the yelling and banging on the bars. I realized that all that
noise was present at some level almost all the time, but by this time I
almost ignored it. I sat down to mope some more. Then I heard the pounding
of inmate shoes on steel stairs, and I realized that the new batch of
convicts was now being distributed.  I heard stomping coming toward my
cage. I suddenly I had this awful unacceptable thought. One of these new
born prisoners was coming into my cell, but I did not want someone else. No
one could take Stretch's place, and I wanted to be left alone in my self-
pity.  But while I was formulating a protest against some new convict
coming into my house, the parade stopped at my door."Back of the cell,
213!" That was the order. I knew I couldn't disobey. My induction
experience had convinced me that the free persons who were running this
entrance to hell could and would do anything they wanted with me. "SIR yes
SIR" was my response. Gone were the brave thoughts of protest. I knew that
somewhere in this warehouse of misery there could be a someone in authority
who could make my cage seem like a place of pleasure.


There was a clanking of chains. One suit of brown was being removed from
the other suits of brown.  Detached from the group came a white bald
teenager.  He looked at me with the same look of contempt that I am sure
covered my own face. "Harris 114832--IN!"Harris 114832 walked in with the
sort of swagger I had seen on campus and found particularly irritating. As
far as I could tell, teen males who had the least in brains and abilities
of other teens but showed the most attitude.  Almost subconsciously I
wondered how this teen had a DOC number much lower than mine.The door
closed behind him, and we two were unhappily in the cage together. I
realized again how small a prison cell can be. Small, and made of steel."Yo
gramps. What you in for--drivin' your wheelchair without a license?"He
laughed, easily amused by his own puerile humor."No," I said."No"

"Come on Gramps.  Spill it.  I know you're in for some pansy deal."

"Grand thieft."

"Wow. Some big dangerous criminal!" he sneered.

"Gramps I was first sent up to the state boys school for grand thieft auto
when I was a freshman.  I graduated from the state boys' prison high
school.  They got me this time for drug dealing.  I was driving my own
Corvette at the time.  Paid cash for it.  Should have known no good for a
nineteen year old driving his own Corvette over 115, but I sure gave those
coppers and good chase."

Wilson continued to look at me.  I would have to admit his stare almost
seemed like he was doing an x-ray of my whole body.

"Gramps you smell queer to me.  I going to give your queer ass the
privilege of serving my needs in this cell.  Right now just sit there at
the back of the cell.

Don't talk.  I'll call you if I need you.  I think we're goin to start you
out on toilet duty.  I hate that scratchy cheap tp the state buys.  You
will have the great privilege of licking my butt hole clean.

(writer's note to SIR.  I think I will not have him actually lick it clean.
Harris will make the professor use his wash cloth to wipe Harris's butt...)
The other thing you need to remember now that where you are is your spot in
my cell."

After he had issued his orders he sat on the little seat, and started going
through all my things.

"Boi you ain't got any shit worth taking.  You're pitiful.  I may have to
rent you out to get you paying your fee for me allowing you to live in my
presence."

I did not know what to do.  I did have a thought that when in prison,
perhaps you should appreciate whenever you are not being used by the free
persons of society and the free persons who were in charge of you in the
department of corrections (now there is one ironic title for this place) or
someone like Harris, who had just indicated his intention to make me into a
prison bitch.  I had almost decided that stories of men being bitched out
were more exaggeration than reality.  Stretch had me convinced these
stories were not true.  Harris now was showing me that all I
feared. (Although I dare I admit to myself that somewhere in the deepest
part of my fantasy of life in prison I did imagine being made into a prison
bitch.)  As Harris hummed to himself, I crouched as ordered.  Fear named
Harris controlled me just as effectively as the bars.

My knees were really hearting and I was beginning to wonder what pain was
worse – the pain in my knees or the pain I was sure Harris would inflict
upon me if I interrupted him in whatever he was doing.

Fortunately I was saved by Harris glancing over at me.  "Yo Gramps you look
a little wobbly on your knees.  Sit on your ass with your knees wide apart
so I can kick you in the nuts if I want to."

I wondered if I should acknowledge the order by saying something like "SIR
YES SIR" or just do as ordered.  I chose the latter and since I did not get
yelled at I was thankful that I had guessed correctly.

He looked over at me with a sort of look of amusement and contemplation.

"Gramps it should be getting close to our time to go downstairs to dine."

I could see from the smile on his face that he was enjoying his attempt at
verbal irony by calling what we would stomp down the stairs to do had any
connection with the pleasure of dining at some fine restaurant.

"When we go down you will follow me.  YOU ALWAYS FOLLOW ME."

He said that much louder and more forcefully. I responded to that clue, by
nodding vigorously.  I got an almost smile as my reward.

"When we get trays I will lead the way to my table.  You will sit on my
left, and sit after I am seated.  You will put your tray in front of you
but also toward me.  The screws will not allow you to just give me your
tray.  You will put your hands to your side, and you will maintain that
position, looking down at the table until I allow you to eat.  If you have
pleased me you may use the spoon, and I will say `spoon.'  If I do not say
spoon you will eat with your hands like some lower form of human...which is
of course what you are."

"After we eat you will take my try and yours to return them.  If the screws
get pissed about that I will take mine.  However, for doing whatever you
did to gain the screws' attention I will physically punish you when we
return to my house."

I again nodded in agreement.

I stayed sitting on my butt for another period of time as he went to the
bars, and started shouting out them.  I do not know how he knew where to
yell, and with all the racket the perpetually echoed around the cell house,
how he could expect another inmate to make his voice out, and how he could
make out the reply, but apparently after some yelling, he must have been
successful, because he turned to me.

"I got some homeboys here, and we are good for my table.  I will let them
know you're mine, and go from there."

Not much later we were ordered to the bars, and I assumed my place squashed
between the end of the bunk and the cell, and the new lord and master took
the more open area by the stainless steel throne. The familiar routine of
being called out, coming out, grabbing hands to elbows, and stomping, down
and across all repeated itself but I could almost not contain my fear and
feeling of worthlessness as I knew soon I would be shown to all the inmates
of our dinner group as a newly minted bitch sub.

After we received our trays, Harris directed me to an empty table.  I
placed my try down and sat on the little stool.  Three other inmates joined
our table.  I gathered that my new owner was known by enough others that my
place in the scheme of things was clear, and others of his gang ( I assumed
his gang) joined him.  A nod from Harris and the other three helped
themselves to items from my tray.  The fruit was scooped away, and my
mystery meat disappeared.  I was now left with a mound of something that
clearly was starch of some mysterious origin.  Again a nod from Harris, and
they stopped, and his nod and one word spoon allowed me to eat the starch,
and scrape the remains of he syrup from the fruit.  I also was allowed to
eat something that might charitably be described as a slice of pie...

mostly a past like crust and some red things that looked like cherries that
had been beaten to death.

The other three were talking a language that I did not understand.  It
clearly was English based but a slang vocabulary that was as foreign to me
as the most obscure language on the planet.  I was slowly realizing that
not only was my cell mate younger, but he was indeed an important gang
figure, and probably I was identified to be his cell mate with the
understanding of prison officials that I would become Harris's personal
slave.

I wondered if I was a freebie or indeed some favors had been given to
prison personnel to make me a sub prisoner to a superior prisoner.  When
the order to stow the trays was given I picked up mine and Harris's and
with seeming no notice by the guards Harris remained seated as I trotted
over to do my duty.  The routine of the return to our cells now occurred.
As we went back, I really found myself almost as a robot.  How far had I
traveled from that naïve professor in a week.  I now knew inwardly the
routine of this place, I now knew the kindness of another prisoner and the
cold domination of another, and through it all I had become accustomed to
this mind numbing routine, and the constantly repetitive theme of a
prisoner was an offender, and the state was quite comfortable to allow one
of this sub species to dominate and own another of the sub species.  I was
becoming less capable of thinking.  I was becoming the lower level species
of humanoid who lived close to basics, and accepted that I was fairly close
to nothing.  As we stopped to be locked into our cage, I really found
myself amazed at my descent, Did Jim really know what would be happening to
me?  Could anyone who has not experienced this life in reality really come
to grip with its reality?  I really hope that Jim was at least a bit as
naïve as I was.

Once in our ...no not our... Harris's cell, I went automatically to the
back sat down on spread my legs as I had been ordered.

Harris sat down, glanced over at me, smiled, "You show promise as a bitch,
but from now on when we are back in my cell, you will strip down to boxers
before you assume your "ready to serve" position at the back of my cell.
If I train you well, maybe I'll sell you."

I did not say anything, but did as ordered.  To me this concept seemed
absolutely impossible.  I was an inmate.  I was legally in the custody of
the state.  I was certainly supposed to be punished, and serve my time as
punishment, but was all this also part of what the state was willing to
allow to happen to a citizen even if that citizen was convicted and
imprisoned?  I almost moved in absolute shock at the answer.  Clearly I had
just shown the answer.  The officers at the mess hall had to know what was
happening to me, and what it meant when I allowed others to consume much of
my meal as I sat there with my hands at my sides.  Obviously they knew and
allowed me to show my subservience as I took my master's tray back to the
slots.  Obviously the state was willing to allow all this primitive
survival-of-the-most-violent-and-strongest environment.

I again decided that when I was released, returned to my former life I
would become an eloquent and indefatigable advocate for prison reform, and
prisoner rights.  I almost smiled as I contemplated what I could bring to
this task in my old life.  Not only did I have two professorships which
would add credibility to my goals, but I had contacts with prominent
persons in both the political, legal, and judicial areas.  As I sat on the
cold concrete floor, legs spread wide exposing my groin area behind my
boxers, I must have smiled outwardly as well as inwardly.

`YOU BETTER BE SMILING AT THOUGHTS OF HOW TO SERVE ME GRAMPS!  ANY OTHER
REASON FOR SMILING WILL BRING YOU TROUBLE."

"SIR yes SIR" was my reply.

`GOOD BOY.  I am about ready to take a piss and shit.  You need to get your
wash cloth, get it moist, and be ready to wipe your MASTER's butt after HIS
shit with your cloth.  It shows your place, and that what has had the honor
of cleaning my asshole will be used to clean your face.  Do you agree that
I am very generous to share such an intimate place with a lowly shit like
YOU?"

I know what I wanted to say.  I also knew what I would say.  "SIR that is a
great honor and privilege SIR."

I then went to the little bag of my personals which my Master had returned
to me after he had made his search for any items he wanted.  I got out my
wash cloth, went to the sink part of the stainless steel alter to inmate
cleanliness, and put it under the water to get it wet.

"Wring it out so that it is damp, but not wet, and then stick it under your
shirt on your chest to get it warm."

I did that and then was ordered "Get over to the bars and let me know it is
safe to shit.  Those cunt guards get some sort of sick fun out of watching
us real men shit."

I had to admit that even Stretch thought that some of the female guards
seemed to come around a cell when an inmate was shitting a bit too often
for it to be an accident.  I looked as far as I could.

"Shit for brains. I forgot you don't know shit.  Take my mirror and use it
to look up and down the tier."

I took his mirror all the time wondering how he managed to have it in this
Reception Center.  Ah well, mine is not to think, only to obey.  I took the
mirror out and used to look both ways.  I did not see a guard on the
walkway in front of our set of cells.

"SIR boy does not see any guard on the tier, SIR." I reported.

"You better be right, boy," was his reply as he pulled down his pants and
boxers, and sat on the stainless steel rim of the toilet.  There was no
toilet seat.  "Boy to the bars and keep a look out."

I hastily returned to searching back and forth for a guard making her way
down the tier.

I could hear him both shitting and then standing up.

"Ready for your service boy." he ordered.

Harris stood up and moved aside so that I could go around him.  He was now
facing the bars and I was behind him looking at his bare butt.

"DAMN I need to tell you everything.  You are truly one dumb old fart.
Kneel down, gently spread my cheeks with your hands, and then with one hand
keep them spread as you take your other hand, get the cloth, and make sure
the hole and area around the hole is completely clean.  You need to do this
carefully but quickly.  Say `CLEAN' when you are done. Then take the cloth
now full of your MASTER's essence, and return in to your bunk pillow to
dry."

I meekly did as ordered.  There were now brown streaks and smudges on my
washcloth.  I did have a second one but I knew deep down that I would be
told that I had the honor of using this one for my morning cleaning
activities.  I did also notice that his cock was probably eight inches
soft.  I had probably three inches.  I knew when he had time to notice, he
would really make fun of my little cock, and probably tell everyone in the
area about it.

He did both during that first evening tier.  He shouted to his buddies in
neighboring cells that his boy had the smallest cock he had ever seen.  He
made jokes about how I could have sex with any woman...if that was my
preference, which he doubted, without ever worrying of getting the bitch
pregnant.

Every time I thought he had brought me as low as possible, I found he had
more degradation to heap on me.

Not much more happened until the announcement that lights would be out
shortly.

He got into his bunk, handing me his pants and shit shirt.  "Fold them
according to regs, and put them at the bottom of the bunk." I was ordered.

When I had finished my task, I was ordered to the top bunk, and threatened
to be sure that I did my prison pants and shirt well enough that I would
bring no official demerits to his cell.

I stripped off, folded carefully, and got under my blanket, although it was
both so small and so thin that the term blanket could be thought of as
honorary.

The next morning through the entirety of the whole day was a carbon of my
life the first full day of being punked out sub.

Two days later I was informed that it was perhaps time for me to learn to
serve his cock by being sure after a piss that there was no little pearls
of his essence on the tip.  I was to be given the high honor of cleaning
his cock off, but he made it clear I was not yet worthy to suck him off to
give him relief from his built up need to spurt.

I knew it was coming, but I feared this almost more than having to
carefully soap and clean up my washcloth in the morning to wash my face
after my wash cloth had been used as my MASTER's toilet paper.  I had
almost expected my MASTER to make me wash my face without any cleaning, but
he seemed to not even notice when I washed my face.

The morning inspection both by Master and the authorities went as before.

Breakfast and my humiliating passivity while my food was taken was
repeated, as it was at lunch.  In between time, I had time spent at the
bars making sure no one would see Master piss or shit.  I of course had to
take my chances, and after I asked permission, I was allowed to piss about
the middle of the morning.  As I stood there doing my business a guard came
by.  He was male, but he stared at me pissing.

"Your boy doesn't have much of a dick does he." the guard said to Master.

"Naw, but it is only used for pissing and so its baby size is unimportant."
was Master's reply.

By this time I had finished, but as I had been instructed, I waited dick in
hand, and waited until the two superiors finished their conversation.  Then
I asked, "SIR permission to stash my pitiful cock back up, SIR?  "Sure, zip
up, and then get to work cleaning the toilet and sink."

"SIR yes SIR."  I answered quickly.  I had learned yesterday that if I were
too slow to acknowledge a command that I would receive a sharp smack on my
butt.

Master then moved over a bit so I could work, as again my wash cloth was
the means to wipe off the rim of the toilet until the metal shone, and then
to do the same with the sink portion of this combined tower of steel.  All
the time I was cleaning, Master and the guard, (I guess they are officially
called co's, but other less flattering names should be applied to these
persons who condone subjugation of the weak, and perhaps even get a
voyeur's enjoyment from this subjugation) carried on a conversation.

I then moved to the back of the cell, sat down on my butt, and opened my
legs up.

I had so accepted his domination of me that I did not even think that I was
also clearly showing both my subservience but also Master's superiority.

The guard left, and MASTER sat down on the stool, and looked over some
papers.

As I sat there I wondered where he had obtained these papers.  I certainly
had not been given any papers to read to keep up with current events.
There were tv sets from pipes hanging about ten feet or so away from the
edge of the walkways in front of the cells.  There were several of these
hanging tv's across the width of the cell block.  I had noticed them, and
noticed that on the screens the shows were not anything which interested
me.



CHAPTER 14Back at B22, I stood inside and waited until I heard the door of
bars slide shut, locking me inside my cage again, but this time alone.  I
stood there, and then for the first time sat on the steel seat by the
wall. I sat there and felt sorry for myself all over again.  I alternated
moping and looking through the bars, as if looking would suddenly bring
Stretch back. I knew that would never happen. Then I heard the cat calls
and shouted comments announcing that a new batch of fresh made state
prisoners had arrived. I went to the bars and looked down the tier.

I heard all the yelling and banging on the bars. I realized that all that
noise was present at some level almost all the time, but by this time I
almost ignored it. I sat down to mope some more. Then I heard the pounding
of inmate shoes on steel stairs, and I realized that the new batch of
convicts was now being distributed.  I heard stomping coming toward my
cage. I suddenly I had this awful unacceptable thought. One of these new
born prisoners was coming into my cell, but I did not want someone else. No
one could take Stretch's place, and I wanted to be left alone in my self-
pity.  But while I was formulating a protest against some new convict
coming into my house, the parade stopped at my door."Back of the cell,
213!" That was the order. I knew I couldn't disobey. My induction
experience had convinced me that the free persons who were running this
entrance to hell could and would do anything they wanted with me. "SIR yes
SIR" was my response. Gone were the brave thoughts of protest. I knew that
somewhere in this warehouse of misery there could be a someone in authority
who could make my cage seem like a place of pleasure.


There was a clanking of chains. One suit of brown was being removed from
the other suits of brown.  Detached from the group came a white bald
teenager.  He looked at me with the same look of contempt that I am sure
covered my own face. "Harris 114832--IN!"Harris 114832 walked in with the
sort of swagger I had seen on campus and found particularly irritating. As
far as I could tell, teen males who had the least in brains and abilities
of other teens but showed the most attitude.  Almost subconsciously I
wondered how this teen had a DOC number much lower than mine.The door
closed behind him, and we two were unhappily in the cage together. I
realized again how small a prison cell can be. Small, and made of steel."Yo
gramps. What you in for--drivin' your wheelchair without a license?"He
laughed, easily amused by his own puerile humor."No," I said."No"

"Come on Gramps.  Spill it.  I know you're in for some pansy deal."

"Grand thieft."

"Wow. Some big dangerous criminal!" he sneered.

"Gramps I was first sent up to the state boys school for grand thieft auto
when I was a freshman.  I graduated from the state boys' prison high
school.  They got me this time for drug dealing.  I was driving my own
Corvette at the time.  Paid cash for it.  Should have known no good for a
nineteen year old driving his own Corvette over 115, but I sure gave those
coppers and good chase."

Wilson continued to look at me.  I would have to admit his stare almost
seemed like he was doing an x-ray of my whole body.

"Gramps you smell queer to me.  I going to give your queer ass the
privilege of serving my needs in this cell.  Right now just sit there at
the back of the cell.

Don't talk.  I'll call you if I need you.  I think we're goin to start you
out on toilet duty.  I hate that scratchy cheap tp the state buys.  You
will have the great privilege of licking my butt hole clean.

(writer's note to SIR.  I think I will not have him actually lick it clean.
Harris will make the professor use his wash cloth to wipe Harris's butt...)
The other thing you need to remember now that where you are is your spot in
my cell."

After he had issued his orders he sat on the little seat, and started going
through all my things.

"Boi you ain't got any shit worth taking.  You're pitiful.  I may have to
rent you out to get you paying your fee for me allowing you to live in my
presence."

I did not know what to do.  I did have a thought that when in prison,
perhaps you should appreciate whenever you are not being used by the free
persons of society and the free persons who were in charge of you in the
department of corrections (now there is one ironic title for this place) or
someone like Harris, who had just indicated his intention to make me into a
prison bitch.  I had almost decided that stories of men being bitched out
were more exaggeration than reality.  Stretch had me convinced these
stories were not true.  Harris now was showing me that all I
feared. (Although I dare I admit to myself that somewhere in the deepest
part of my fantasy of life in prison I did imagine being made into a prison
bitch.)  As Harris hummed to himself, I crouched as ordered.  Fear named
Harris controlled me just as effectively as the bars.

My knees were really hearting and I was beginning to wonder what pain was
worse – the pain in my knees or the pain I was sure Harris would inflict
upon me if I interrupted him in whatever he was doing.

Fortunately I was saved by Harris glancing over at me.  "Yo Gramps you look
a little wobbly on your knees.  Sit on your ass with your knees wide apart
so I can kick you in the nuts if I want to."

I wondered if I should acknowledge the order by saying something like "SIR
YES SIR" or just do as ordered.  I chose the latter and since I did not get
yelled at I was thankful that I had guessed correctly.

He looked over at me with a sort of look of amusement and contemplation.

"Gramps it should be getting close to our time to go downstairs to dine."

I could see from the smile on his face that he was enjoying his attempt at
verbal irony by calling what we would stomp down the stairs to do had any
connection with the pleasure of dining at some fine restaurant.

"When we go down you will follow me.  YOU ALWAYS FOLLOW ME."

He said that much louder and more forcefully. I responded to that clue, by
nodding vigorously.  I got an almost smile as my reward.

"When we get trays I will lead the way to my table.  You will sit on my
left, and sit after I am seated.  You will put your tray in front of you
but also toward me.  The screws will not allow you to just give me your
tray.  You will put your hands to your side, and you will maintain that
position, looking down at the table until I allow you to eat.  If you have
pleased me you may use the spoon, and I will say `spoon.'  If I do not say
spoon you will eat with your hands like some lower form of human...which is
of course what you are."

"After we eat you will take my try and yours to return them.  If the screws
get pissed about that I will take mine.  However, for doing whatever you
did to gain the screws' attention I will physically punish you when we
return to my house."

I again nodded in agreement.

I stayed sitting on my butt for another period of time as he went to the
bars, and started shouting out them.  I do not know how he knew where to
yell, and with all the racket the perpetually echoed around the cell house,
how he could expect another inmate to make his voice out, and how he could
make out the reply, but apparently after some yelling, he must have been
successful, because he turned to me.

"I got some homeboys here, and we are good for my table.  I will let them
know you're mine, and go from there."

Not much later we were ordered to the bars, and I assumed my place squashed
between the end of the bunk and the cell, and the new lord and master took
the more open area by the stainless steel throne. The familiar routine of
being called out, coming out, grabbing hands to elbows, and stomping, down
and across all repeated itself but I could almost not contain my fear and
feeling of worthlessness as I knew soon I would be shown to all the inmates
of our dinner group as a newly minted bitch sub.

After we received our trays, Harris directed me to an empty table.  I
placed my try down and sat on the little stool.  Three other inmates joined
our table.  I gathered that my new owner was known by enough others that my
place in the scheme of things was clear, and others of his gang ( I assumed
his gang) joined him.  A nod from Harris and the other three helped
themselves to items from my tray.  The fruit was scooped away, and my
mystery meat disappeared.  I was now left with a mound of something that
clearly was starch of some mysterious origin.  Again a nod from Harris, and
they stopped, and his nod and one word spoon allowed me to eat the starch,
and scrape the remains of he syrup from the fruit.  I also was allowed to
eat something that might charitably be described as a slice of pie...

mostly a past like crust and some red things that looked like cherries that
had been beaten to death.

The other three were talking a language that I did not understand.  It
clearly was English based but a slang vocabulary that was as foreign to me
as the most obscure language on the planet.  I was slowly realizing that
not only was my cell mate younger, but he was indeed an important gang
figure, and probably I was identified to be his cell mate with the
understanding of prison officials that I would become Harris's personal
slave.

I wondered if I was a freebie or indeed some favors had been given to
prison personnel to make me a sub prisoner to a superior prisoner.  When
the order to stow the trays was given I picked up mine and Harris's and
with seeming no notice by the guards Harris remained seated as I trotted
over to do my duty.  The routine of the return to our cells now occurred.
As we went back, I really found myself almost as a robot.  How far had I
traveled from that naïve professor in a week.  I now knew inwardly the
routine of this place, I now knew the kindness of another prisoner and the
cold domination of another, and through it all I had become accustomed to
this mind numbing routine, and the constantly repetitive theme of a
prisoner was an offender, and the state was quite comfortable to allow one
of this sub species to dominate and own another of the sub species.  I was
becoming less capable of thinking.  I was becoming the lower level species
of humanoid who lived close to basics, and accepted that I was fairly close
to nothing.  As we stopped to be locked into our cage, I really found
myself amazed at my descent, Did Jim really know what would be happening to
me?  Could anyone who has not experienced this life in reality really come
to grip with its reality?  I really hope that Jim was at least a bit as
naïve as I was.

Once in our ...no not our... Harris's cell, I went automatically to the
back sat down on spread my legs as I had been ordered.

Harris sat down, glanced over at me, smiled, "You show promise as a bitch,
but from now on when we are back in my cell, you will strip down to boxers
before you assume your "ready to serve" position at the back of my cell.
If I train you well, maybe I'll sell you."

I did not say anything, but did as ordered.  To me this concept seemed
absolutely impossible.  I was an inmate.  I was legally in the custody of
the state.  I was certainly supposed to be punished, and serve my time as
punishment, but was all this also part of what the state was willing to
allow to happen to a citizen even if that citizen was convicted and
imprisoned?  I almost moved in absolute shock at the answer.  Clearly I had
just shown the answer.  The officers at the mess hall had to know what was
happening to me, and what it meant when I allowed others to consume much of
my meal as I sat there with my hands at my sides.  Obviously they knew and
allowed me to show my subservience as I took my master's tray back to the
slots.  Obviously the state was willing to allow all this primitive
survival-of-the-most-violent-and-strongest environment.

I again decided that when I was released, returned to my former life I
would become an eloquent and indefatigable advocate for prison reform, and
prisoner rights.  I almost smiled as I contemplated what I could bring to
this task in my old life.  Not only did I have two professorships which
would add credibility to my goals, but I had contacts with prominent
persons in both the political, legal, and judicial areas.  As I sat on the
cold concrete floor, legs spread wide exposing my groin area behind my
boxers, I must have smiled outwardly as well as inwardly.

`YOU BETTER BE SMILING AT THOUGHTS OF HOW TO SERVE ME GRAMPS!  ANY OTHER
REASON FOR SMILING WILL BRING YOU TROUBLE."

"SIR yes SIR" was my reply.

`GOOD BOY.  I am about ready to take a piss and shit.  You need to get your
wash cloth, get it moist, and be ready to wipe your MASTER's butt after HIS
shit with your cloth.  It shows your place, and that what has had the honor
of cleaning my asshole will be used to clean your face.  Do you agree that
I am very generous to share such an intimate place with a lowly shit like
YOU?"

I know what I wanted to say.  I also knew what I would say.  "SIR that is a
great honor and privilege SIR."

I then went to the little bag of my personals which my Master had returned
to me after he had made his search for any items he wanted.  I got out my
wash cloth, went to the sink part of the stainless steel alter to inmate
cleanliness, and put it under the water to get it wet.

"Wring it out so that it is damp, but not wet, and then stick it under your
shirt on your chest to get it warm."

I did that and then was ordered "Get over to the bars and let me know it is
safe to shit.  Those cunt guards get some sort of sick fun out of watching
us real men shit."

I had to admit that even Stretch thought that some of the female guards
seemed to come around a cell when an inmate was shitting a bit too often
for it to be an accident.  I looked as far as I could.

"Shit for brains. I forgot you don't know shit.  Take my mirror and use it
to look up and down the tier."

I took his mirror all the time wondering how he managed to have it in this
Reception Center.  Ah well, mine is not to think, only to obey.  I took the
mirror out and used to look both ways.  I did not see a guard on the
walkway in front of our set of cells.

"SIR boy does not see any guard on the tier, SIR." I reported.

"You better be right, boy," was his reply as he pulled down his pants and
boxers, and sat on the stainless steel rim of the toilet.  There was no
toilet seat.  "Boy to the bars and keep a look out."

I hastily returned to searching back and forth for a guard making her way
down the tier.

I could hear him both shitting and then standing up.

"Ready for your service boy." he ordered.

Harris stood up and moved aside so that I could go around him.  He was now
facing the bars and I was behind him looking at his bare butt.

"DAMN I need to tell you everything.  You are truly one dumb old fart.
Kneel down, gently spread my cheeks with your hands, and then with one hand
keep them spread as you take your other hand, get the cloth, and make sure
the hole and area around the hole is completely clean.  You need to do this
carefully but quickly.  Say `CLEAN' when you are done. Then take the cloth
now full of your MASTER's essence, and return in to your bunk pillow to
dry."

I meekly did as ordered.  There were now brown streaks and smudges on my
washcloth.  I did have a second one but I knew deep down that I would be
told that I had the honor of using this one for my morning cleaning
activities.  I did also notice that his cock was probably eight inches
soft.  I had probably three inches.  I knew when he had time to notice, he
would really make fun of my little cock, and probably tell everyone in the
area about it.

He did both during that first evening tier.  He shouted to his buddies in
neighboring cells that his boy had the smallest cock he had ever seen.  He
made jokes about how I could have sex with any woman...if that was my
preference, which he doubted, without ever worrying of getting the bitch
pregnant.

Every time I thought he had brought me as low as possible, I found he had
more degradation to heap on me.

Not much more happened until the announcement that lights would be out
shortly.

He got into his bunk, handing me his pants and shit shirt.  "Fold them
according to regs, and put them at the bottom of the bunk." I was ordered.

When I had finished my task, I was ordered to the top bunk, and threatened
to be sure that I did my prison pants and shirt well enough that I would
bring no official demerits to his cell.

I stripped off, folded carefully, and got under my blanket, although it was
both so small and so thin that the term blanket could be thought of as
honorary.

The next morning through the entirety of the whole day was a carbon of my
life the first full day of being punked out sub.

Two days later I was informed that it was perhaps time for me to learn to
serve his cock by being sure after a piss that there was no little pearls
of his essence on the tip.  I was to be given the high honor of cleaning
his cock off, but he made it clear I was not yet worthy to suck him off to
give him relief from his built up need to spurt.

I knew it was coming, but I feared this almost more than having to
carefully soap and clean up my washcloth in the morning to wash my face
after my wash cloth had been used as my MASTER's toilet paper.  I had
almost expected my MASTER to make me wash my face without any cleaning, but
he seemed to not even notice when I washed my face.

The morning inspection both by Master and the authorities went as before.

Breakfast and my humiliating passivity while my food was taken was
repeated, as it was at lunch.  In between time, I had time spent at the
bars making sure no one would see Master piss or shit.  I of course had to
take my chances, and after I asked permission, I was allowed to piss about
the middle of the morning.  As I stood there doing my business a guard came
by.  He was male, but he stared at me pissing.

"Your boy doesn't have much of a dick does he." the guard said to Master.

"Naw, but it is only used for pissing and so its baby size is unimportant."
was Master's reply.

By this time I had finished, but as I had been instructed, I waited dick in
hand, and waited until the two superiors finished their conversation.  Then
I asked, "SIR permission to stash my pitiful cock back up, SIR?  "Sure, zip
up, and then get to work cleaning the toilet and sink."

"SIR yes SIR."  I answered quickly.  I had learned yesterday that if I were
too slow to acknowledge a command that I would receive a sharp smack on my
butt.

Master then moved over a bit so I could work, as again my wash cloth was
the means to wipe off the rim of the toilet until the metal shone, and then
to do the same with the sink portion of this combined tower of steel.  All
the time I was cleaning, Master and the guard, (I guess they are officially
called co's, but other less flattering names should be applied to these
persons who condone subjugation of the weak, and perhaps even get a
voyeur's enjoyment from this subjugation) carried on a conversation.

I then moved to the back of the cell, sat down on my butt, and opened my
legs up.

I had so accepted his domination of me that I did not even think that I was
also clearly showing both my subservience but also Master's superiority.

The guard left, and MASTER sat down on the stool, and looked over some
papers.

As I sat there I wondered where he had obtained these papers.  I certainly
had not been given any papers to read to keep up with current events.
There were tv sets from pipes hanging about ten feet or so away from the
edge of the walkways in front of the cells.  There were several of these
hanging tv's across the width of the cell block.  I had noticed them, and
noticed that on the screens the shows were not anything which interested
me.