Turned Out in Prison: Life Under Tank’s Control

The clang of the cell door echoed through the narrow hallway, rattling through my bones as it slammed shut behind me. My heart was racing, pounding so hard in my chest that it drowned out everything else. This was it—the place where I’d be calling home for who knows how long. They found some things, sure, but it’s not like I hurt anyone. Not really. But try explaining that here. I forced myself to take a step forward, my mouth dry, my gut churning with dread. This place wasn’t meant for someone like me.

Inside, the cell was small, dimly lit, with concrete walls that seemed to absorb all warmth. My eyes flicked around nervously, taking in the sparse surroundings—a bunk bed, a metal sink, and a toilet tucked into the corner. But it wasn’t the cell itself that made my skin crawl; it was the man who occupied it.

Tank. The name drifted through every corner of this place, wrapped in whispers of fear and respect. I’d heard the stories back in the holding area—how he commanded the block with a quiet, unshakable authority. Now, here he was, sprawled on the lower bunk, his posture deceptively casual but emanating a menacing stillness, like a coiled predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

He was a mountain of a man, his bald head gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, a salt-and-pepper goatee framing a face that looked like it had seen—and caused—its share of brutality. His broad shoulders and muscular arms strained against the thin fabric of his white wife beater, revealing tattoos that snaked across his skin in dark, intricate patterns, each one a story of violence and power. When he lifted his head, his eyes, cold and penetrating, locked onto mine with a stare that froze me in place. This was not a man who joked around; this was a man who owned every inch of the space around him.

To my surprise, his lips curved into what almost resembled a smile. “Ay, what’s good?” he said, his voice low and rumbling, yet oddly soft. “You fresh meat ’round here, huh?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. Words seemed to lodge in my throat, choked by fear and uncertainty. I was waiting for something—an order, a threat, some kind of demand. But instead, he continued in that calm tone, his gaze assessing but not overtly hostile.

“Tough gettin’ thrown in this joint, ain’t it?” he asked. “I remember my first bid. Adjustin’ to this hellhole ain’t easy, trust.” 

I blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected kindness. I managed a small nod, my voice barely a whisper. “Heh… yeah, it’s different.” 

Tank grunted, then gestured to the bunk above him. “Ay, that’s you right there,” he said. “Get your spot set up. Gonna need to learn how things go ‘round here if you wanna make it.”

As I set my things on the bunk, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of relief. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as they said. Maybe I’d gotten lucky. Tank leaned back, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Yo, you hungry?” he asked after a moment, his tone casual. “I got some extra bread if you tryna eat.”

My stomach growled involuntarily at the mention of food. I hadn’t eaten much since arriving, nerves choking off my appetite. “Yeah… I guess,” I replied, glancing at him cautiously.

He reached into a small bag by his side and tossed a piece of bread toward me. I caught it awkwardly, mumbling a quick thanks. As I took a bite, Tank continued to talk, his voice smooth, almost conversational. He offered advice on what to expect, which inmates to avoid, and how to keep my head down. His words were lined with an undercurrent of authority, each one settling into my brain with a weight I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Over the next few days, Tank kept up this front of friendliness. He showed me how to navigate the routines of prison life—when to wake up, where to stand during roll call, how to avoid the most dangerous areas in the yard. His presence was a shield, keeping the other inmates at bay. And I, desperate for any semblance of protection, clung to his guidance like a lifeline.

It wasn’t long before I found myself unconsciously following his instructions without question. “Ay, park yo ass right here,” he would say, pointing to a spot on the bench in the mess hall, and I’d obey, grateful for the sense of direction. Or, “Keep ya head low when you movin’ through that hallway,” and I’d comply, eager to avoid trouble. It felt like he was looking out for me, like he had my back in this hostile place.

But there was something lurking beneath his words, a subtle hint that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. His tone was never quite casual; there was always a layer of command, a suggestion of a debt I was accumulating with every piece of advice, every scrap of food he shared.

Over time, the illusion of his kindness began to crack, revealing what it truly was: a trap. At first, Tank’s gestures had seemed almost generous. An extra piece of bread slid my way at dinner, a quiet nod of approval when I followed his directions. In this cold, unforgiving place, those small acts of “kindness” felt like a lifeline, a sliver of humanity to cling to. But slowly, I started to see the pattern.

Each act of generosity came with a price. If he shared food, it meant I owed him something later. If he offered advice on how to navigate the prison yard, there was an unspoken expectation that I would obey his every command without question. The first time I hesitated, he was quick to remind me of the debt I owed him. His eyes would narrow, his voice low as he said, “Don’t forget who keeps you safe here.”

His words echoed in my mind, the underlying threat clear. Safety, comfort—even the most basic needs—were privileges that he granted, and at any moment, he could take them away. And so, I began to comply more readily, my actions guided less by choice and more by a growing sense of obligation. I started to wake up early to clean the cell before he even had to ask, fetching his food, his laundry, whatever he needed.

It was then I realized how deep his control had burrowed into my daily life. He wrapped his will around me slowly, binding me to him with every act that seemed kind on the surface but hid the chains underneath. The small comforts he allowed me made the harsh reality of my dependence all the more suffocating. And the more I accepted his “kindness,” the tighter his grip became.

With each passing day, his hold on me grew stronger. When he spoke, his voice was no longer that of a protector—it was a command. The way he looked at me wasn’t with concern but with the sharp gaze of a predator watching his prey, waiting to see if I’d adjusted to my new role. And in those moments, as I nodded, obeyed, and fell into the rhythm of his demands, I felt the last remnants of my independence slip away, replaced by the cold truth: his kindness was never about me. It was really always about control.

One evening, Tank shifted the atmosphere entirely. We were sitting in the cell, the dim light casting long shadows across the walls. I was perched on the edge of the bunk, listening to him talk about the rules of survival when he paused mid-sentence, his gaze locking onto mine.

“Ay, listen up, ain’t nothin’ in here free, you feel me?” he said slowly, his voice dropping to a darker, more dangerous tone. My stomach tightened. “You been ridin’ on my help for a minute now. That protection? It comes with a price.”

His eyes were hard, and for the first time since I arrived, the full weight of his presence crashed down on me. I felt a chill sweep through my body as I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. Tank stood up, towering over me.

“From now on, you mine,” he continued, his voice smooth but carrying the edge of a command. “You do what I tell you, when I tell you. You answer to me, got that?”

I swallowed, my throat dry and tight. A part of me screamed to push back, to reject what he was saying. But I knew the stories, the warnings about what happens to guys like me in cut-throat places like this. I nodded, the movement of my head feeling slow and heavy, like an iron weight being placed on my shoulders.

“That’s good,” he said, his lips curling into that unnerving smile again. “Aight, you locked in. It’s a new day from here on out.”

From that point on, every aspect of my life was centered around Tank. He woke me up before dawn, ordering me to clean the cell while he lounged on his bunk, watching with a keen eye. The silence between us was thick, filled with an unspoken understanding of who held the power.

It started with the small things, little demands that seemed insignificant at first. “Go grab my food from the mess hall,” he’d say casually, his eyes watching my every move as I hesitated, then nodded. At first, I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I was just being practical—keeping the peace, avoiding unnecessary conflict. But each time I complied, I felt something within me tighten, like a rope slowly winding around my chest.

The next time, it was another favor. “Massage my shoulders,” he muttered one night after a long day, his tone making it clear that it wasn’t a request. I stared at him for a moment, my hands trembling slightly. I’m not gay. I didn’t sign up for this. But I knew what hesitation would cost me. I’d learned that lesson already. So, I stepped forward, feeling his eyes on me as I knelt behind him on the bunk. My hands hovered uncertainly over his shoulders, and for a second, I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“I said, do it,” he ordered, his voice a low growl, and I pressed my fingers against the taut muscles beneath his shirt. His skin was rough, warm, as I began to knead, my movements slow and uncertain at first. I could feel the tension in his body, the quiet power he held even in this moment of forced intimacy. And the longer I continued, the more I could sense his satisfaction, his authority solidifying as I gave in to his will.

As I continued, I could feel his body relax, the tension easing slightly as I worked his muscles. But then, without warning, his hand snaked up and gripped mine, pulling it down towards his waistband. My eyes widened, a sudden rush of panic surging through me as he pushed my fingers beneath the fabric, his dick hard and throbbing against my skin.

His dick was huge, thick and pulsing, and I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I struggled against his grip. But his strength was too much, his fingers digging into my wrist, keeping me in place.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, as he guided my hand up and down his shaft, his precum coating my palm. “Good boy.”

The words echoed in my head, mixing with the rush of sensations and the shame that burned inside me. I didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to give in to his demands. But the power he held over me was overwhelming, and the thought of resisting made my heart race with fear.

So, I did as he said, jerking him off, feeling his dick swell and pulse under my touch. I could feel his eyes on me, the heat of his gaze burning into my skin, making me feel vulnerable, exposed. 

“Suck it,” he ordered, his voice calm and even, his eyes piercing.

I shook my head, my voice shaky and low. “No, I… I can’t do that,” I stammered, backing away slightly. My heart pounded in my chest, every muscle in my body tense as I braced myself for his reaction. This wasn’t what I wanted, not now, not ever. I couldn’t go through with it.

But Tank simply shook his head, his eyes cold and calculating. He remained still, his massive frame looming over me like a shadow. His silence stretched out, pressing down on me like a weight, making the air around us heavy and suffocating. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured, each word carrying a sense of finality that made my blood run cold.

“I know why you’re in here,” he said, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. My stomach dropped at his words, fear tightening its grip around my throat. I opened my mouth to protest, to deny, but nothing came out. Tank’s eyes bore into mine, unflinching, unrelenting. He knew. Of course, he knew.

“They found that fucked-up shit on your computer,” he continued, his gaze never wavering. “You think that kind of thing goes unnoticed in here? You’re marked, boy. They know what you did—or at least, they know enough to put a target on your back.”

I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, my skin prickling with cold sweat. He wasn’t lying. I had tried to keep my head down, to avoid talking about the specifics of why I was here. But Tank knew, and if he knew, it meant others did too. My mind raced, a surge of panic crashing against the edges of my sanity. If he abandoned me, if he left me unprotected…

“You think you got options?” he asked, his voice softening to a dangerous whisper as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. “You don’t. The second I let you go, you’ll be on your own. And trust me, they’ll come for you. I’m the only thing keeping you safe in this place.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. I could feel his gaze piercing through me, dissecting me, leaving me nowhere to hide. I wanted to scream, to fight back, to deny the trap he was setting, but I couldn’t move. Every inch of me was locked in place, bound by the reality he had laid out before me.

“So, you’re gonna do this,” he said finally, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the cell, filling every corner. “Or you can take your chances out there. See how long you last without me watching your back.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and aching. The room spun around me, and I felt the crushing weight of my situation pinning me to the spot. His eyes were still on me, waiting, demanding. I knew he was right. I knew that if I didn’t comply, my days in this place would become a living hell.

So, with a deep, shuddering breath, I sank to my knees. My hands trembled as I reached up, grasping the waistband of his pants, and slowly pulled them down. Tank remained silent, his body stiffening slightly as I exposed him.

As I took him in my mouth, I felt a strange mixture of shame and relief washing over me. The taste of him filled my senses, salty and warm, his skin slick with sweat. His dick throbbed against my tongue, growing harder with each stroke, and I could feel his eyes on me, his gaze burning into me like a brand.

“That’s it, boy,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, as he wrapped his fingers around my head, guiding me back and forth, back and forth. “Suck it.”

I closed my eyes, focusing on the rhythm, the weight of him in my mouth, the slickness of his skin against my lips. And as I continued, I could feel the tension easing, his body relaxing slightly as he leaned back against the bunk, his hips rising and falling, thrusting himself deeper into my throat.

“Good boy,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that echoed in my ears. “You’re learning.”

As the minutes passed, the sounds around me faded, replaced by the steady thrum of his pulse, the warmth of his skin, the taste of his flesh. And slowly, I began to slip away, my mind drifting, surrendering to the moment.

Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded in my cheek, snapping me back to reality. Tank had slapped me, his face inches from mine, his eyes blazing.

“Watch your teeth,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, sending a chill down my spine. “Do it again, and you won’t like what happens next.”

I nodded, my hands shaking, as I sank back down.

“Good boy,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re learning.”

And as I continued, I felt a strange mixture of fear and relief. Because even though he was forcing me to submit, there was a twisted comfort in the fact that I didn’t have to worry anymore. I didn’t have to fight, didn’t have to resist. Tank would take care of me, in his own way. And that, in a place like this, was all I could ask for.

Tank’s dick swelled in my mouth, throbbing and pulsing with every stroke. His hands tightened around my head, gripping me like a vice, his breath quickening with each passing second.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, as he thrust himself deeper into my throat. “Fuck, that’s good.”

I could feel him getting close, his body tensing, his dick hard and slick with my saliva. And as he began to buck his hips, fucking my mouth with reckless abandon, I could sense the moment approaching, the edge of no return.

Suddenly, Tank let out a low growl, his eyes fixed on mine as he exploded, his cum coating my tongue, filling my throat, drowning me. His body shuddered, his fingers digging into my scalp, as he emptied himself, every ounce of him draining into me.

His cum tasted salty, thick, and warm, filling my senses with its intensity. I could feel his hands on the back of my head, holding me in place, as he continued to thrust, his dick throbbing and pulsing.

Tank’s gaze bore into me, his eyes cold and unyielding. “Swallow it,” he ordered, his fingers gripping my chin, his thumb pressed against my lips. “Every drop.”

I wanted to hurl.

But I had no choice.

So, I did as he said, his cum sliding down my throat, coating my tongue, filling me with its heat. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, the shame burning inside me. But I kept going, swallowing every drop, my hands trembling, my knees raw from the concrete floor.

When he was finished, he pulled away, his dick slipping from my mouth, leaving me gasping for air. He adjusted his clothes, his eyes still on me, his gaze piercing, evaluating.

“You’re learning,” he said finally, his voice low and raspy. “You’re not where you need to be, but you’re learning.”

And with that, he turned and climbed onto his bunk, leaving me kneeling on the floor, my face wet with tears, my throat raw, and the taste of him still lingering on my tongue.

As I lay awake that night, I kept replaying what just happened in my mind. I’ve never did anything gay before. But now, as the night crept around me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creeping up inside. Tank was in complete control, and if I didn’t comply, there would be consequences.

So, as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder what else was in store for me. What else he would demand of me, and how far I would go to survive.

From there, the demands kept coming, each one chipping away at what little autonomy I had left. Some were ordinary, like folding his clothes just the way he liked or scrubbing the cell floor until it shined. Others were designed to test my obedience, pushing my limits I hadn’t realized I’d set for myself.

“Stand right here,” he’d command in the yard, pointing to a spot beside him. Or, “Keep your fuckin’ eyes on the floor when you walk,” his tone cold and commanding. Every order had a purpose: to see how quickly I’d respond, how willingly I’d follow. And each time I obeyed, I felt a part of myself give way, bending to his will.

Gradually, his control expanded. My day became a series of orders to fulfill, each one stripping away a bit more of my will. I found myself standing by his side in the mess hall, eyes fixed on the floor, ready to move at his word. The other inmates watched, some with knowing smirks, others with cold indifference. I tried not to think about what they saw—tried to block out the humiliation gnawing at my insides.

And all the while, Tank’s demeanor remained unsettlingly calm, as if everything he demanded was as natural as breathing. The way he watched me as I moved around the cell, completing tasks he had assigned, was unnerving. His eyes would follow my every step, not with anger or frustration, but with a cold, calculated control. It was in these moments that I began to see his kindness for what it truly was—a twisted form of ownership.

What once seemed like simple gestures—him tossing a piece of bread my way, giving me a nod when I completed a task to his satisfaction—had morphed into something far more sinister. There was a possessiveness in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment that I was his to command. He would sometimes reach out, a hand brushing against my shoulder or gripping my arm, not as a gesture of comfort, but as a reminder. A reminder of his power over me.

“Good,” he would say in that calm, even tone, his voice carrying an unspoken weight that settled heavily in the room. It wasn’t praise—it was a claim, a declaration that I had done what he expected of his possession. Every act of compliance, every second of silent obedience, only solidified that claim, wrapping his will tighter around me like an iron chain.

And as he moved around the cell, his presence dominated the space. The air grew thick with an understanding that I was no longer just a person; I was becoming something he owned. His calmness, the way he conducted himself with such cold authority, left no room for doubt. What I once mistook for kindness was nothing more than his way of cementing his control over every aspect of my existence.

Part 2: Broken In: Tank Takes My Prison Virginity