Author: carter
Title: Prison Diaries - the prelude
Part: Part 1
Summary: The beginnings of a novel length piece about how a young man grew up to be a sadistic dominant.
Keywords: nc, mmmf, mf, mm

Disclaimer; this is a work of fiction. If you don't understand that, don't read it. If you are under the legal age in your country to read a work like this, then don't read it. Spend the time doing something useful, like trying to change your government.


You knew when you were fifteen.
You knew there were girls who did and girls who didn't.
You knew there were things you could do, and things you couldn't get away with. But I also knew there were things that no-one talked about or explored. Or admitted to exploring.
I was walking home from a summer's night wasted hanging round a local cottage. No-one worth a second look had shown up, and I was grumpy and horny. So I walked home along the canal bank, and up to the field below the flats.
The noise was pretty clear immediately. Lads talking and laughing, and a girl crying and gasping. Real, angry, humiliated crying, nothing simulated, or mocking, just tears. The noise was coming from the corner of the field, in the shadow of the fence. I walked towards the noise. Not much made me scared. Not amongst the kids my own age on our estate. People didn't even call me a poof, though a few of the boys knew what I did.
What did I do?
I fucked anything that walked on two legs. Men. Women. Men who dressed as women. Boys who showed weakness. Girls who showed willing. I didn't know if I gave off signals, but people seemed to know.
They didn't know the whole story. They didn't need to. If I came by my strength of will through the experience of being weak, they didn't need to know. If I learned to enjoy fucking older men by not enjoying being fucked by older men, they didn't need to know.
 
So I didn't feel scared going to find out what the noise was. I recognised two of the boys stood with the back to me. The Protheroe's. Michael and Danny. I'd fucked Michael. They were standing watching. They were followers, not leaders. The third boy was Digs. He passed as a leader in a dim light. Wayne Dougherty. A grade A cunt. A bully, even by my standards. And a coward. The Protheroes were in awe of him. They were some kind of cousins. The kind of cousins who'd inter-married once too often if you asked people who knew.
 
Digs was fucking Andrea Gregory. I liked Andrea. She wasn't liking what Digs was doing to her. It didn't take much thought really. The Protheroes fucked off as soon as I glowered at them. Digs took a little longer. A kick in the arse speeded him up.
 
One of the reasons why I liked Andrea was because she was sexy in a pretty, 14 year old with tits too large for her frame kind of way. I liked, too, the way she chatted and laughed and joked with me. She didn't seem put off by my reputation or the fact that I was better at being tough than I was at being funny. Lying there, her jeans pulled down, her teeshirt up, tits out of her bra, she looked frail, weak, but sexy. I sat down next to her, as if nakedness wasn't unusual, She didn't seem to want to move. So I sat there. I'd learned patience.
 
The first thing she said was `I didn't want it like this.' I listened. She'd fancied Michael Protheroe. She'd liked the idea that he was quieter than the other boys. Not scary. Except that he'd set her up for his brother and Digs. So it was rough, and nasty, and the end of her virginity, with a cry and a whimper, and the Protheroe's not lasting much longer than Digs the first time, before Digs had started a second go. At which point I'd arrived.
 
Her mum and dad were out. She was shaking and crying. No-one was going to help her. I helped her get dressed, and hung my denim jacket round her shoulders for the walk up the hill, and on to her house. I remembered a sick feeling in my guts, and the anger, and the way I'd felt completely alone, walking back home late from choir practice and terrified they'd all know as soon as I walked in the house. Except that no-one noticed, and no-one even asked, and no-one could explain why I woke up in the middle of the night and realised that I was aroused, and tempted, and wishing he was there again to make me feel like I wasn't alone in the world. So I walked Andrea home, and tried to persuade her I could understand, except I couldn't tell her.
 
She let me follow her into the house. It was still not nine o'clock, and her mum and dad wouldn't be home till the pub closed. She wasn't one of the girls who had a name for letting boys into the house when mum and dad were out, or when she was baby sitting. She was angry. She wanted to have a bath, but she wanted to talk to me. She wanted to say thank you, but she didn't want me to think she was stupid. All that came out in under a minute.
 
I tried to be cool. I tried to be uninterested. I told her I wished I'd fucked her. I told her I wished I'd taken my chance. I told her she was lovely, and sexy. She didn't say a word. She stood and stared at me. Then she told me Michael and Digsy had said I was a poof. That was why she'd walked home with me, why she'd let me in the house, why she thought I hadn't joined in.
 
I didn't really recognise my voice. I explained I'd fucked Michael Protheroe. That I could fuck his brother if I wanted to. That I'd fuck Digs till he bled when I got the chance, to teach him his place.. That I could fuck her better than any of them had. She told me to go away, that I was being scary. So what? Scary was what made them run away when I arrived. Scary was what made me stop being a victim, and victim was what she was.
 
I made the point by grabbing her right breast. She flinched, but didn't try to get away. I was committed. She was frozen, like an animal that suddenly knows the hunter was there all along. When I pushed her back against the table, with my legs between her thighs, she pushed back, but stopped again as soon as I raised my hands. That gave me time to get my hands under her tee-shirt, to push it up so it was over her head, to pull her bra up so her tits were exposed. She started to say something. Pinching her nipples and twisting them stopped her. Blindfolded by her own clothes, she fell back onto the table. Stripping her from the waist down took just seconds, even if her panties caught on the stickiness between her legs. I grabbed the green nylon scouring pad off the draining board, and rubbed her pussy with it. She reacted, twisting away from its touch, but then freezing when I ran my thumb over the pinkness of her clit. I bent over her and put my hand to her throat.
`They didn't know where to touch did they? Is that where you rub yourself when you're in bed?' She didn't speak, or move her hand, but when my hand went back to her clit she tried to squirm away. Slapping her thighs stopped that, but only temporarily. Her bra provided the answer. Tangled under her arms it was just a mess. Pulled off her, looped round her neck, it made a halter that I could use to control her, twisting it to remind her. It gave me one handed control of her while I worked on her clit with my other hand. All the time I talked to her, about how this was how it was, how being turned on and out of control were all part of the same thing. I rubbed her clit with the scourer again, and she came.
I put my mouth close to her ear, tightening the cloth ligature around her neck. I told her the choices. I could choke her till she passed out, then fuck her, or she could ask me to fuck her. One choice ran the risk of me getting it wrong and killing her, and the other... The other ran the risk that she would give herself away. She called me a bastard, and a swine. A punch in the ribs fixed that. She started to cry again; I scoured her nipples with the nylon pad, and she made a coughing, swallowing, choking noise that was followed, breathlessly, with a plea for me to fuck her. I made her say it again, louder, without the throaty, crying noise, and, when she complied, got my cock into her.
I waited till she was aroused, and gasping, building towards orgasm, before I started to choke her again. I waited until her eyelids started to flutter before I let go. When she'd finished coming and crying she said `I thought you wouldn't do that if I asked...'
 
I carried on fucking her, and told her `I lied.'
 
It took another ten minutes for me to come. She'd choked to the point of passing out, mucus and spit around her nose and mouth, and was at the very edge of hysteria. I helped her upstairs to the bathroom, washed her face, stroked her hair, told her she was safe if she let me do these things. As I walked down the street I looked for her mum and dad's car coming up the street. I knew the next eight hours were dangerous.
 
Next morning, we got the school bus from the bottom of the road. She sat by me. She rested her head on my shoulder in a tiny show of intimacy that I allowed because the top deck was empty until we got to the next estate. I squeezed her thigh till she yelped. She looked at me.
`Why?'
I left my hand on her thigh.
`Because you enjoyed last night.'
She looked around, as if checking there was no-one on the bus.
`You said you'd done things to them. Are you like this with them?'
I ran my finger along the rough material of her school skirt.
`I'm worse. Far worse.'
She wanted to know more. I told her to wait till lunch time, to meet me on the field by the farm and I'd tell her.
She didn't know about the farm.
About seven people in the school did. The deputy head, another teacher, me, and four other boys. More people knew about what made the farm possible though. They knew this was a school where boys could be as much the object of sexual attention as any girl. A school where the deputy head and a small group of teachers saw the pupils as theirs to use as they saw fit. Not that unusual for the 1970s, if truth was told.
 
The farm grew out of that. I knew men who liked boys like me. I'd grown not to like it. Grown up faster maybe. I had a theory that most of the men I knew who liked to bend boys over had been bent over themselves at some stage. Most of them were bisexual as well. Married, with wives and kids of their own, they'd fuck anyone who couldn't or wouldn't argue back. And they were grateful to their co-conspirators, the ones who'd share.
 
So I planned and schemed, and passed messages to make sure everything went to plan. Digs got the message that I wanted to meet him to sort out the previous night's mistake. Someone else told him I was scared of him. Mr Harries, the music teacher, got the message that the farm would be in business at 12:30.
 
I walked down the field with Andrea, making chat about how she was. She'd been shaky apparently. Scared that someone would know, that someone would talk about it. Scared that I'd talked. As we approached the farm she saw Digs coming, and she stopped. I held her hand, told her she could trust me.
 
Digs thought he could trust me too. He wasn't to know.
 
As we turned the corner to the farm, through the little wooden bridge over the ditch I could see the cars. Three of them; a Cortina, a Maxi, and a Granada estate. That meant the message had got through.
 
Andrea stood between me and Digs. She didn't want to look at him. He thought that meant he was going to get  a second go at her, that there were options for him. I shook my head.
 
`Have you heard about what happens in that barn Digs?' He licked his lips. I smiled. At least I knew what was going to happen. I squeezed Andrea's hand.
`Here's how it goes Digs. If you want to go home tonight, you go in that barn, you strip, and the guys in those cars will fuck you and you'll suck their cocks.'
`Fuck off...'
`The other choice is I batter you, they fuck you and kill you and you don't go home. Take your pick Digs...'
Shock made his words sound hollow.
`Fuck off...'
`Your call Digs. Remember Kenny Jones ran away and didn't come back?'
Digs started to speak, then stopped. Did he believe I'd do it?
A sharp punch to the guts and a kick in the balls and he believed. He let me half shove, half push him to the door of the barn. Behind me I heard car doors slam. Digs heard them too.He tried to get away. He failed. And he gave in. He stripped himself. Perhaps he imagined there was still a way out. The men were on him in an instant. A hand cupped his balls and teased his flaccid cock. Another hand ran up his bare chest and pinched his nipples. From my angle I couldn't see the hand that probed his arse, but from the expression on his face I knew it was happening.

Over the next twenty minutes they turned him inside out. He didn't even have the respite of sucking some of them off. He made the mistake of biting someone's cock, and got a punch that smashed teeth and shredded his lips. After that it was just repeated buggery, one man after another. None of them lasted long, and none of them made any pretence of trying to please him. I felt Andrea shaking next to me, and hugged her. I kept repeating to her that this was what happened to people who crossed me. I took her away before what I knew would follow. She didn't need to see Dirty John strangle Diggs and put him into the back of his Maxi. The talk was that if you were good enough John smuggled you away to Bristol, to a house where men used you and gave you pocket money, but that option wasn't going to be open to Digsy. How did I know? I couldn't say. I just knew, Andrea didn't need to know any of it. She'd seen the blood on Digsy's face and on his thighs, she'd seen him crying and nearly passing out.She knew enough, so I walked her back to school, and told her I'd meet her that night at the youth club.



Except I never got to youth club. Just after tea time there was a knock at the door. Dirty John was stood there with another man. He had a card in his hand, like a season ticket for the bus. I'd only ever known him as Dirty John, a man who fucked anything weaker than him in the cottages and outdoor spots known to queer men all over our end of Wales. Not as Detective Sergeant Lloyd. The man with him was a social worker apparently. I don't know what they said to my mam and dad in the kitchen, what they told them, but they both looked away as I was led to the car. The same dirty green Maxi that I'd guessed Diggs was going on his last ride in. My ride was somewhat shorter; fifteen minutes to the police station, where Dirty John told one of the coppers to put me in a cell. I was left there for hours. It   felt like hours. Eventually Dirty John came and sat in the cell with me. He sounded drunk.

Drunk or not, the story he had to tell was blunt. I was too big for my boots. Digs had been disposed of. Andrea was being dealt with. People would think they'd run away together. That left me. John had told my parents about my having sex in toilets with men. They'd agreed to my being taken into care. That way I wouldn't cause any more trouble. I could choose. Co-operate in care, or die in care. Kids in children's homes often topped themselves. So might I, if I didn't co-operate. I blustered, I raged, and I argued. He listened, then he got up and left. The door clanged behind him, and I stared at the walls.

More time passed. The other man came in. He introduced himself as a social worker. He explained that they knew I was beyond my parents control. Did I want to tell him why I was doing such dangerous and risky things, hanging round places where older men congregated? He picked away for about ten minutes, wanting answers. I tried to look at a point on the wall over his head. I was so angry I wanted to scream and cry, to punch him and to run away, but all I could do was sit straight backed on the bunk against the wall, and wait for him to stop.

They came back for me after midnight. John, another social worker, and a uniformed copper. They put me in the back of a van, my hands cuffed behind me. I fell off the bench along the sides of the van the first time it went round a corner, probably the one by the primary school before the railway bridge. Every corner thereafter I was rattled round like a pea in a whistle. When the van stopped I was grateful, and sick, and sore. not as sore as I felt when they put a coat over my head, and took turns fucking me up the arse, but sore enough to want to puke.

When they'd finished John started talking.
`Where you're going they'll report back to me. Any word that you're being out of order I'll come and get you, and hang you. Understood?' I understood. A man had been found hanging in the woods last year. They said he'd been playing with himself and had gone too far, too kinky. I figured John knew different.


