Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers only. It contains themes of dominance, submission, degradation, power dynamics, and explicit sexual content that may not be suitable for all audiences. The events and characters depicted are entirely fictional and do not condone or promote real-life violence, non-consensual acts, or exploitation. The content is meant for entertainment within a fantasy context and is not a reflection of real-life situations or the experiences of individuals in prison. Reader discretion is advised.
Part 1: Turned Out in Prison: Life Under Tank’s Control
My days blurred into a cycle of servitude, each one a series of commands and rituals designed to remind me of my station in this cruel jungle. It started the moment I woke up, with Tank’s voice slicing through the darkness before the sun had even risen.
“Get up,” he’d bark from the lower bunk. My eyes would snap open, my heart pounding in my chest as I scrambled to obey. The cold air of the cell hit me like a slap, but I didn’t dare hesitate. Tank expected precision in everything I did, and I’d learned quickly that any slip-up would be met with harsh consequences.
My mornings belonged to Tank. The routine began with cleaning—his orders were simple, but the consequences of failure were anything but. I’d wash up in the small, rust-stained sink, making sure to keep as quiet as possible while Tank watched, his eyes tracking my every move. After that, it was on to tidying the cell. I had to fold his clothes with exact precision, ensuring every crease was perfectly lined. The cell had to be spotless; even a speck of dust was an excuse for him to exert his dominance.
“Didn’t I tell yo goofy ass to clean that fuckin’ corner?” he’d snap, his tone cold and unforgiving. My stomach would twist into knots as I dropped to my knees, scrubbing the floor furiously, feeling his gaze burn into the back of my neck.
Breakfast in the mess hall was no respite. Tank would stride confidently into the room, his presence commanding, while I trailed behind him, head down, eyes fixed on the floor. My hand stayed latched onto his waistband, fingers gripping tight—a silent reminder of who I belonged to. It wasn’t for comfort; it was for control. Every step I took, I had to keep that constant connection, holding his belt loop or wrist as we moved through the room. Tank made sure of it. It was his way of reminding me, and everyone else, of the power he had over me.
My job was to serve him, nothing more. I’d stand silently by his side as he chose our (his) meal, then carry the tray back to our table, careful to place it in front of him without making a sound. The other inmates would watch, some with sneers, others with indifferent glances, but I couldn’t let their reactions faze me. My world revolved around Tank’s satisfaction, his approval the only thing that kept me safe.
He made me wait, too. I wasn’t allowed to touch my own food until he’d had his fill. Sometimes, he’d make me sit there, stomach growling, while he took his time, savoring every bite. It was a game to him, dragging it out just to watch me squirm. ‘You wanna eat?’ he’d sneer, eyes gleaming with that sadistic light. ‘Then earn it.’ And sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cruel, he’d take my tray entirely, eating from it while I sat there, empty-handed, knowing that whatever I had belonged to him first. If he left me anything at all, it felt more like a mercy than a right. I was nothing more than an afterthought to his appetite.
There were times when “earning it” meant enduring his commands in front of everyone, actions that made my skin crawl and my mind scream to retreat. In the crowded mess hall, he’d lean back in his chair, eyes fixed on me with that cold, calculating gaze. His voice, calm yet authoritative, would cut through the noise. “On your knees,” he’d say, casually, as if asking me to pass the salt. The room would go silent, a hush falling over the tables as all eyes turned to me, expecting me to suck him off in front of a public audience.
My stomach twisted, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Every fiber of my being recoiled at the thought of obeying, my pride and shame warring within me. But I knew what defiance would bring—his anger, his strength, and a lesson I wasn’t willing to learn the hard way again. So, swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I dropped to my knees.
I felt the cold, sticky floor through my prison-issued pants, the grime seeping into the fabric. My face burned as whispers and snickers reached my ears, the humiliation flooding through me in waves. I focused on the concrete below me, on the tiny cracks and stains, anything to keep my mind off the eyes staring, judging.
“Earning it” wasn’t just a matter of compliance; it was a performance for everyone to see, a public display of my submission. Sometimes, he’d make me crawl to retrieve his tray, the sound of my knees scraping against the rough surface echoing in the hall. Other times, he’d have me clean his shoes with a rag while the room watched, silent and expectant.
But this time was worse. He ordered me to worship another man’s feet. Not just one, but several. I glanced up, catching sight of a man sitting at the far end of the table. Tank gave a curt nod, and I knew what was coming. My stomach churned as I crawled over, the taste of humiliation already sour in my mouth.
I reached the man’s feet and hesitated, my hands hovering above them. “Start with a massage,” Tank commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding. With trembling fingers, I began to knead the stranger’s feet, feeling the coarse skin and hardened calluses beneath my touch. The room filled with snickers and muttered taunts, every word drilling into my pride.
“Now smell them,” Tank ordered. My heart raced, a frantic, pounding rhythm against my ribcage. I bent forward, the scent of sweat and grime hitting my nose, making my eyes water. The man shifted, his foot pressing closer to my face as if daring me to disobey. I inhaled, fighting the urge to retch, the sour odor burning my senses.
“Go on, lick the soles,” came the next command, followed by laughter that rippled through the hall. My tongue felt heavy, unwilling, but I knew I had no choice. I dragged it across the filthy sole, the taste of dirt and salt coating my mouth. More laughter erupted around me, jeering voices egging me on as I licked in between the man’s toes, the space sticky and foul.
It didn’t end there. When I finally finished, Tank pointed to another man. And then another. My stomach knotted tighter with each new pair of feet I had to worship. I moved from one to the next, each task a fresh wave of shame crashing over me. By the time I reached the third man, I was numb, operating on sheer willpower. The room had turned into a cacophony of taunts and mockery, but I kept my head down, licking, smelling, massaging, until Tank finally leaned back with that smug, satisfied look on his face.
Only then did he say the words I was waiting for. “You can eat now.”
I crawled back to my spot, the taste of sweat and grime still thick on my tongue, blending nauseatingly with the food in front of me. My stomach twisted in disgust, but hunger clawed at my insides. I forced the food down, each bite a mixture of salt, dirt, and humiliation. I knew better than to ask to brush my teeth afterward; Tank had made it clear that this was part of “earning it.” The lingering taste was a constant reminder of my place, his way of ensuring that the humiliation seeped into every part of my day.
The mornings bled into afternoons, and my servitude continued. My tasks changed depending on Tank’s whims. One day, I might be polishing his boots, the next washing his clothes by hand in the grimy sink while he watched, arms crossed over his chest. His presence was a constant weight pressing down on me, reminding me that my life was no longer mine.
When we moved through the prison yard, I stayed a step behind him, my eyes on the ground. Tank spoke to other inmates with a casual authority, negotiating for favors or goods. I was just another part of his power, a bargaining chip he used whenever it suited him. The first time he fucked me, I felt a sickening lurch in my stomach.
He never sugarcoated anything. His words were blunt and direct, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “I want to fuck you,” he said, his tone icy and matter-of-fact. “And you’re gonna let me fuck, or I’ll make you wish you had.”
The room seemed to close in on me, his words hanging heavy in the air, choking off any protest that might have risen in my throat. I felt my stomach twist, the reality of his command settling like a weight on my shoulders. There was no softness in his voice, no hint of compromise or leniency. Just the stark reality that he expected nothing less than my complete compliance.
He didn’t stop there. “And you’re gonna learn how to take my dick properly,” he continued, a cold smirk forming on his lips. “There’s another fag I want you to meet. Her name is Cookie. She’ll show you the ropes.”
I blinked, confusion mixing with the dread that already sat heavy in my gut. I wanted to ask who she was, but the look in his eyes told me it didn’t matter. My heart sank further as I understood; this wasn’t just going to happen. I was expected to prepare for it, to submit in ways I hadn’t imagined.
Tank arranged for me to meet the man… or woman—a well-known inmate, notorious for his androgynous demeanor and his way around the prison’s unspoken rules. Cookie approached me with a knowing look, one that made my skin crawl with unease. His voice was light but carried a hint of condescension. “So, Tank sent you to me to learn how to bottom, huh?” He put a hand on his hip, giving me a once-over with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Mm-hmm, I see why. You lookin’ like a lost puppy, baby.” He smirked, flicking his wrist. “Alright, let’s start with the basics. First things first, eat light. You can’t be eatin’ whatever you want and thinkin’ you’re gonna be fine. No ma’am, that ain’t how she works!”
He turned, snapping his fingers. “Listen up, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once. When you know it’s about to go down, you gotta keep it light. Think salads, fruits, all that clean shit. You feel me? Ain’t nobody tryna deal with last night’s chili. Uh-uh.” He waved his hand dismissively before giving me a pointed look. “And hydration is key, miss thing girl. That means water, water, and more water. Your whole body needs to be ready.”
He paused, his expression turning serious for a second. “Now, about that prep,” he continued, lowering his voice. “I know you’ve seen them water bottles lying around. Honey, she is your best friend. Trust me.” He gave a mischievous smile, raising an eyebrow. “Fill it up, get comfortable, and let it do her magic. You gotta get used to it if you wanna keep Tank satisfied.”
“Speaking of, Tank ain’t about to play games with you,” he said, snapping his fingers again to make his point. “He likes a smooth hole, okay? So you best get ready to relax and surrender. That means no tensing up! Breathe, honey. You gotta let go. You’ll know it’s working when you stop clenching, mm-kay?”
He leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with a mix of sass and seriousness. “And here’s the real tea: Tank likes to be in control. He’s all about being the boss, so don’t go thinkin’ you’re gonna call the shots. You do what he wants, how he wants, act like you into it, and trust me, it’ll be… easier for you. Got it, boo?”
He stepped back, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh. “Whew chile, I don’t envy you, but listen, you’ll get used to it. Practice makes perfect, period. Now, go on and get yourself together. You got this.” He pointed a manicured finger at me, his voice lifting into a singsong tone. “And remember, don’t make a mess of it. Tank don’t like messy.”
The moment came sooner than I was ready for. My stomach twisted into knots as I went through the motions, preparing myself the way I’d been taught. I moved mechanically, following the instructions I had been drilled on, each step reminding me of what was to come. My heart pounded against my ribs, and I had to force myself to breathe, to focus on what I had to do to survive.
The water bottle felt cold in my hands, its plastic crinkling under my grip. I filled it with water, my stomach churning at the task ahead. Just do it, I repeated in my mind, trying to force myself into autopilot. I crouched down, the cell’s chill seeping through my skin as I positioned the makeshift tool.
“Get comfortable,” Cookie’s words echoed. But there was no comfort in this. My body tensed, instinctively resisting, as I tried to relax. My breath grew shallow, my muscles fighting against what felt unnatural. I focused on the cracks in the wall, anything to dissociate from the invasion. Time blurred as I pushed through the awkwardness, the humiliation washing over me in waves.
The moment arrived, and I found myself back in Tank’s cell, standing before him, my legs trembling. His eyes bore into me, as cold and commanding as ever. “You ready,” he asked, his voice steady and unfeeling. I nodded.
I did as I was told, fighting to keep the nausea at bay as I positioned myself. The room seemed to shrink around me, his presence filling every corner, every breath I took. I could hear the words of Cookie replaying in my head: Relax. Surrender. But how could I? My mind was screaming, my body tense with fear and revulsion.
The moment Tank’s massive dick began to invade my orifice, a sharp, searing pain shot through my body. My 2nd sphincter muscle tightened instinctively, my mind begging for me to stop, to get away, but there was nowhere to go. The pain was so consuming that Tank became the only thing I could focus on, every thought narrowed down to his dick and the relentless pressure he exerted as he digs into me. I forced myself to breathe, each inhale a jagged, shallow gasp as I tried to recall the instructions: Relax. Surrender. The words felt meaningless against the pain radiating through me.
My body was protesting, refusing to accept that I was actually getting ruthlessly conquered by another man. It was as if Tank, like an unyielding emperor, claimed new territory with every inch, forcing me to yield to his conquest despite the resistance of unfamiliar land. The pressure increased, a slow, unrelenting force that stretched me beyond what I thought possible. My breath hitched, my nails digging into the thin mattress beneath me. I clenched my eyes shut, focusing on the sound of my breathing, the coldness of the cell, anything to escape the moment.
As it happened, I felt my mind split into fragments. I wasn’t there—I refused to be there. The pain shot through me, sharp and blinding, but I forced my muscles to ease, to surrender as I had been taught. I bit my lip, tasting blood, trying to focus on the cold wall in front of me rather than the reality of what was happening. Time blurred, stretching into an eternity, every second an agony I couldn’t escape.
Relax, just relax, I repeated to myself like a mantra, clinging to those words as if they were a lifeline. My mind floated above it all, detached, disconnected from the body that was being used. I heard his voice, his commands, felt the pressure and force, but it all became a distant echo, a muffled sound behind the roaring in my ears.
Time blurs. It felt like an eternity, each second stretching into the next. I bit down on my lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood, using the pain to ground myself. I willed my mind to drift, to detach from the burning, the intrusion, and the reality of what was happening. My senses dulled, a thick fog settling over my awareness as I focused on surviving this, just getting through it.
But then Tank’s grip on the back of my head tightened, and the fog cleared. The pain returned, the feeling of him deep inside me, a constant reminder that he was there, in control. He began to thrust, his rhythm slow, steady, his breath heavy and even.
With each movement, I felt myself slipping, the lines between my body and mind blurring. My hands clutched the sheets, my hips lifting, matching his rhythm, responding to his will. It was like being caught in a current, a force beyond resistance, and I felt myself succumbing to the power, the weight, the feeling of him above me.
And as his thrusts quickened, his hips slamming into me, the pain sharpening, I felt a strange sense of release. It was a release of control, a surrender to his will, a willingness to let him take me, use me, possess me.
With each thrust, the pain dulled, replaced by a growing warmth, a deep, aching need. My body responded, my hips lifting to meet him, the tension building, the pressure growing. I could feel him inside me, his length, his heat, his power, and the feeling sent a shudder through me, a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
It was intoxicating, addictive, and I found myself chasing it, matching his pace, letting him use me, claim me, own me. And as his rhythm quickened, his grip tightening, I felt myself falling, tumbling, the pleasure rising, the pain fading.
And then, with a final thrust, he buried himself inside me, his release hot and deep, his body shuddering against mine. It was a primal, animal act, a raw display of power, and I felt myself coming undone, the pleasure rolling through me, my vision going white, my body shuddering beneath him.
And then, it was over. The room came back into focus, my surroundings crashing into me with brutal clarity. I lay there, gasping, every part of me aching as I slowly pieced myself back together. Tank stood up, his face a mask of indifference, as if what had just happened was nothing more than routine. “You did well enough,” he muttered, his voice cold and detached. “But you’ll get better.”
And as we lay there, panting, sweating, the world slowly came back into focus, and the realization hit me. I had just been ruthlessly conquered, taken, possessed, and yet, in that moment, I had never felt more alive. It was a release, a surrender, a feeling of belonging, and I knew, deep down, that I had lost something that day.
His words rang hollow in my ears as I curled up on the bed, the ache in my body a reminder of what I had just endured. I stared at the wall, willing myself not to cry, not to let the reality of my situation break me completely. This was my life now, a series of commands to follow, to survive. And somewhere, deep within the numbness that had settled in my bones, I knew I would have to keep earning it.
Every act of disobedience, every moment of hesitation, was met with swift punishment. A sharp smack across the face, a shove against the wall, or worse. I learned quickly that compliance was my only option. The bruises faded over time, but the lessons they imparted stayed etched into my mind. I stopped thinking about what I was doing, focusing instead on simply getting through each task, each demand. Survival meant obedience, even when it cost me my dignity.
The evenings brought a new set of rules. After dinner, I was expected to massage Tank’s shoulders, my hands working out the tension in his muscles as he leaned back, eyes half-closed. It was one of the few times he showed any semblance of relaxation, his stern expression softening just enough to remind me that my place was to serve him.
Sometimes, the massages would lead to more, a shift so subtle yet so ominous that I could feel it creeping in before it even happened. His hands would reach back, finding mine as they moved over his shoulders, guiding them lower with a silent, unspoken command. The touch of his fingers on my skin sent a shiver down my spine, and I could feel my throat tighten, my pulse quickening in anticipation of what was coming.
I wanted to pull away, to stop my hands from following his direction, but the pressure of his grip left no room for hesitation. His fingers were firm, insistent, pressing my hands further down his back. My stomach churned, a wave of nausea mingling with the cold dread that wrapped itself around me. My skin crawled as I felt the shift in his posture, the way his body tensed slightly under my touch, asserting his control in every small movement.
He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. His silence spoke volumes, filling the room with a tension so thick I could barely breathe. My hands moved mechanically, driven by his guidance, each inch of progress feeling like a concession, another piece of myself slipping away into his grasp. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears, a reminder of how trapped I was in this moment.
The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing in as I complied with his wordless demand. I focused on the floor, the rough texture of the blanket beneath my knees, anything to distract from the reality of where his hands were leading mine. Yet, even as I tried to detach, the warm sensation of his hard dick under my palms was inescapable, a visceral reminder of his dominance.
The nighttime routine was the hardest. As darkness settled over the prison, Tank would order me to prepare the cell for sleep. I had to fold his clothes neatly, set out his toiletries for the morning, and arrange the thin mattresses on the bunks. My movements were mechanical, each one drilled into me from weeks of practice. I didn’t allow myself to think anymore. Thinking made it worse.
When it was finally time to lie down, I would curl up on the edge of the upper bunk, my back to the room. The cell was quiet, save for the sound of Tank’s breathing below me. I’d squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of my situation, but sleep never came easily. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts—regret, fear, and a grim acceptance that this was my life now.
On some nights, when the prison was cloaked in darkness and silence, I would lie awake on the upper bunk, staring at the ceiling. My mind raced with thoughts of everything that had changed, of everything I had lost. It was in these quiet moments, when I thought I was finally alone, that I feared the most. Because I knew what might come next.
Tank would reach up, his fingers closing around my ankle with a grip that left no room for resistance. A shiver of dread would shoot through me as I felt him tug, a silent order to climb down. My body tensed, instinctively wanting to pull away, to stay rooted in place. But I knew better. I had learned what defiance would bring.
