Welcome, guest. You are not logged in.
Log in or join for free!
Stay logged in
Forgot login details?

Stay logged in

For free!
Get started!

Text page

<<Cell # 13>>

When I arrived at prison I was terrified. The smell of concrete and steel permeated and hung heavy in the stifling air. The long four hour bus ride shackled in chains didn't do much to alleviate my anxiety. I was assigned cell #13 after a lengthy intake process. We were given two uniforms of state green plus two pairs of white boxers and a pair of cheap work boots along with two pairs of white socks.

I took the fact my cell was number 13 as a foreboding sign from the gods. My sentence was an indeterminate one to three years. My crime was possession of a controlled substance. If I stayed out of trouble while incarcerated I could expect to be free in about thirteen months I was assured by my half-witted defense attorney. I'm your average white male about five feet ten and an unprepossessing one hundred and sixty five pounds. I'm average in all regards.

Of course I had heard all the horror stories about prison. I prayed I could find a way to avoid becoming 'Bubba's' bitch. My wife, the beautiful and very sexy Jane and my fourteen year old son were waiting dutifully at home for me. Both had promised to write and visit often. They kept their promise.

The inmate population was preponderantly Black and Spanish. Whites comprised at most five percent of the population. The guards or corrections officers as they liked to be called were all Caucasians.

I had historically gotten along very well with both Black and Spanish men and women. I had owned a nightclub in New York City ("The Black Cat") before my incarceration. The club catered primarily to Black and Spanish men and women. So my familiarity with their sociological predilections was well founded in real life settings. The tone and texture of their quotidian languages and mores were not as alien to me as they were to my white colleagues in stir.

The edifice known as Lions Mountain Correctional facility was an imposing brick and mortar building of the late nineteenth century variety. It was nestled high up in the mountains of New York State near the Canadian border. There were sections of it that still bore the stamp of its 1890 origins. Most of it however was somewhat more modern, circa 1950's or thereabouts.

In each cell there was a bunk bed a commode a small table and a tiny locker.

I occupied my cell, #13, all by myself for about a week or so. The guards told me my cellmate, Lance, was being disciplined and was in the 'box'. The 'box' I learned was prison idiom for solitary confinement. Lance would be out of the box in a day or two depending upon his deportment the guards said. Having the 9' x 6' cell all to myself was spoiling me. We arose at six in the morning for breakfast in the mess hall.

We were marched to the mess hall for lunch at twelve noon. Dinner was at six in the evening. The 'final count' and lights out was at eleven each night. There were counts of the inmates at various times during the day. For obvious reasons the guards cared more about the inmate counts than anything else in the facility. The food was esculent. It was enough to keep body and soul together.

For the most part the guards were essentially indifferent to the inmates. I quickly saw that as long as they weren't annoyed and the counts went smoothly they left us to our own devices. We inmates had our own little world. It was subject to all the vagaries and petty prejudices that any small community of men might be, only more so. For this was prison, not a boy's camp.

Only thoughts of my wife and son kept me from having a nervous breakdown. We were allowed out of our cells each day besides meals for our work assignments. Each inmate had to have a job or some school to go to each and every day except Sundays. Muslims were given Saturdays off and worked or went to school on Sundays. A large recreation room with a television and tables and chairs was on each cellblock. There were rows of fifty cells to a tier in each building. There were fifteen such buildings. Tiers were five stories high.

The fifth tier in all the buildings were in desuetude and without lights and uninhabitable.

Fifth tier cells were all open and empty. Nobody was permitted on the fifth tiers, including the guards. The railings on the fifth tier were all loose and the steps were dangerous. There were three thousand prisoners housed in Lion Mountain. I was but one. This is my story.

I heard the keys of the guard long before I saw his face. Mike, the nicest and friendliest of the guards approached and opened the door to cell #13. My first reaction to Lance as he ambled into the cell was one of inferiority. Lance stood about 6'2" tall and weighed in at 230 pounds of chiseled granite muscle. His well defined muscularity strained at his green shirt and pants. Lance's face was blank, expressionless, and cold, icy cold.

He had the kind of face that made one wish for a glimmer of emotion on it.

I quickly scampered up to the top bunk. Lance gave me an unexpected wide toothsome smile. Other white inmates had told me the bottom bunk was Lance's.

"Got a smoke?" Lance asked pleasantly enough.

I had received a package from my wife, Jane, only yesterday. I had plenty of smokes. I thanked God I did. I had no desire to get off on the wrong foot with Lance by disappointing him with a negative answer to his first question. I very quickly handed him a cigarette and lit it for him. Lance spoke in a relaxed manner about his trials and tribulations in the 'box' without me asking.

However, he refused to tell me what he had done to get himself thrown into solitary. I didn't press the issue with him.

We spoke of our lives and our respective crimes for nearly two hours. The yell of "MEAL TIME WALKING" was given by the captain of the guard, big Sal. Lance and I as well as the whole cellblock grew silent. We marched to the mess hall in stony silence. I followed Lance as we grabbed trays, utensils, and then our meal. I sat at a table of twenty inmates.

The chatter in the mess hall was stridently staccato and seemingly friendly in tone. Old friends and new, making small talk of prison, and street life. I remained silent. My one friend, Tim, and I exchanged glances and small nods of hello. Upon our return to the cell Lance produced his 'short eyes'. 'Short eyes' is prison vernacular for glossy pornographic magazines. These magazines depicted women in scantily clad outfits and nudes. Very few of the books had graphic sex scenes.

He offered me one or two to peruse. I took them. I didn't wish to appear uninterested in a subject which clearly interested Lance so much, sex. I reminded him I was married and had a wife and fourteen year old son waiting for me at home. Lance grunted approvingly at this reminder. We showed each other our favorite 'bitches' in the short eyes books. Short eyes are a status symbol in prison. Lance had the most in the entire facility. I was duly impressed with his collection of dirty books.

I felt both fear and pleasure at having the top prisoner as a cellmate. To be frank and candid I had a gnawing fear since Lance first entered cell #13. Fear of his astounding physical presence and his daunting and unquestionable superiority over me. My pleasure was derived at watching his catlike and graceful movements. He moved with the grace and assuredness of a jungle beast. His muscles rippled under his clothing like snakes in a bag, a well fitting bag to be sure.

He noticed the picture of my wife and son I had put on the locker.

He said only, "Good looking lady."

I said, "Thanks."

He told me again how lucky I was to have family that visited me regularly. He said, "You're blessed man, blessed"

This was a phrase I was too hear often in the ensuing months. Very quickly it became 'de rigeur' for Lance to hold out his hand anytime he desired a cigarette. I only responded by placing a cigarette in his huge hand. Lance was going to be inside he said for about a year or so. He had violated parole. He was now doing time for parole violation.

His original sentence or 'bid', as the inmates referred to sentences as, was twenty years. Lance had done fifteen years of an original twenty year 'bid'. Lance had killed a white man. He was now nearly thirty nine years old and had spent half of his life in prison. despite this horrifying situation he appeared to be a calm and satisfied man. Underneath this quiescent façade breathed a fire and a fury.

Lance returned from his assigned work in the prison kitchen. He removed his kitchen habiliments as I reclined on the upper bunk. There was one shower for every five cells. Permission from the guard on duty was needed to use the shower.

I didn't want to appear self consciously prudish as Lance prepared for his ablutions by averting my eyes. He held my gaze. He disrobed and chatted with me steadily as he did so. He sauntered to the showers. He held a bar of my wife's Camay soap she had sent to me. He let his towel drop to the stone floor. Lance was an astounding physical specimen. My heart skipped a beat.

The cells were left open during most of the day. They were only locked completely down on last count at eleven P.M. The guards patrolled the cell block corridors of each tier in use. They walked back and forth, back and forth. The 5th tier was conspicuous by its silence and disuse. Inmates freely socialized by visiting each other's cells under the watchful eyes of the omnipresent guards.


During my first few nights at Lions Mountain I had heard bizarre noises during most nights. They were definitely the sounds of humans and not of rats as some suggested to me. They were emanating from the 5th tier, I was certain of this. Could the joint be haunted? Things were scary enough without ghosts.

I was soon assigned to work in the prison kitchen. Lance and I were now coworkers as well as cellmates. I hadn't had this kind of propinquity with my wife, I smiled to myself. Lance only snickered mischievously when I asked him about the noise on the 5th tier. After our first day working together we repaired to our cell.

Lance said, "You take a shower first Ron, I'll take one after you."

"No problem," I mumbled in reply.

It was impossible not to be naked in front of your cellmate at some point. Lance's stare bore into me as I hurriedly removed my kitchen uniform. I was bizarrely pleased Lance found me worthy of a second glance. After my shower Lance allowed another inmate to take his turn in the shower.

Lance had that kind of influence with the guards. He remained in the cell with me as I finished drying myself with a new fluffy towel Jane had sent to me. I must admit I was beginning to enjoy Lance's attentive glances. At this point I was beyond ordinary horniness. I had not had sex with my wife or anyone else in months. I was 'backed up' to say the least.

"Don't be shy Ron," Lance said evenly.

"I'm not I'm not," I replied too nervously to sound convincing.

"Ok ok," Lance smiled.

My slender and diminutive dick sprung to life. I stood balancing myself on the back wall of the cell. My towel fell off as I sought to remain upright. I quickly bent to retrieve it. Lance's large black hand got there first. Yup I was standing completely naked with a hard- on before the grinning Lance. My feeble white physique was on ...
Next part ►

This page:

Help/FAQ | Terms | Imprint
Home People Pictures Videos Sites Blogs Chat