Doug Ellis Ch. 03

The process of justice from arrest to conviction and sentencing can take years in some complex cases. Prisoners are moved, often on a daily basis from cell to cell, from police station to court, prison to court and sometimes to the relative freedom of bail. A busy and stressful time of 'hurry up and wait' with hearings, interviews with legal representatives and/or officers of the justice system and procedural postponements. Some prisoners face the threat of extradition overseas or into different state jurisdiction. During this period, prisoners may be locked up with different people every night. There is no choice in the matter. One of the key privileges lost with freedom of association. Where prison populations are small, and conditions carefully controlled to meet the human needs of prisoners, the possibility of single occupancy cells exists. This is a luxury that most societies are unable or unwilling to fund.

Ellis had only been on the lifer wing for a few minutes before the more outgoing prisoners had realised he was not a man given to casual conversation. The scavengers, the sharks, the barons and the just plain nosey will have what they want to know about a newly arrived prisoner within minutes. We could waste time with examples of these failures to scrutinise the man and discuss what didn't happen, or pass onto what actually did. Ellis was acquiring nicknames by turns from everyone, by those he had ignored or those he'd brusquely dismissed. Thanks to his protracted remand imprisonment, Ellis had been around in the system long enough to know that the less anyone knew about a person the less vulnerable they were to exploitation. All anyone got out of Doug was his name and number. Consequently, though the man was big, the myth was already bigger.

Doug was accommodated in 317 with Goodall, a man less like himself they could hardly have found. Only twenty four, Goodall had been an arsonist and was now doing life principally at the insistence of insurance company lawyers who press for long sentences. Like many of the boys, his was not a first offence and a second conviction for setting a serious fire usually means life. He was one of the smaller men on the wing at only five feet seven. He'd never used a gym so had the body of a typical college drop out, though Phillip Goodall had never been a college boy. He was plain, mousey and had been profoundly deaf since birth. With his hearing apparatus he could hold a conversation but his speech was inflected with that special voice of someone who learned to speak not hearing himself. For this reason, Goodall usually chose to not speak if possible even when spoken to, and would elect to hear only when it was really necessary, however, his lip reading was startlingly good, lightening fast, effective over surprising distance and his interpretation of body language a similarly intensely focused survival tool. To Ellis, this combination of quiet internalisation could not be bettered. Goodall lay on his bunk and read much of the time, he plodded around the exercise cage in his turn. Their eyes met, at Ellis' insistence when they were first introduced, very briefly. Goodall, fearful, wishing to avoid the big man's gaze. However, in that momentary eye to eye contact the arsonist recognised far more than anyone else since Ellis' arrival. Most importantly, his fear was forgotten. A strange kind of common ground, the mutual unwillingness to communicate, but anyone expecting to learn something about the one man from the other would be disappointed.

In the noisy queue for their evening meal, Ellis ahead, Goodall fixedly staring at the landscape of white cotton tee between Doug's shoulder blades, he was suddenly pushed from his place by Higson, a man who wore his violent past on his battered face, jumping into the line. Not a word said but Doug felt the motion right enough. Turning slowly, Ellis caught the eye of the flustered Goodall who knew instinctively from the look to move into the space beyond Doug, ahead one place in the queue. Ellis then looked at Higson, who's altered features wore a succession of conflicted expressions while Ellis displayed none, he then turned his back on the incident and on the bewildered Higson to jeers of complaint from behind about people pushing in.

Pushing his food around the plastic tray back in the cell, Phillip looked up to see the big man looking at him. Goodall wanted to say something in the way of thanks but seemed to know it was not welcome. However, a discussion was initiated by Ellis, much to Goodall's surprise in more than one way, with well practiced gestures Phillip Goodall would learn that Doug Ellis, brought up by his Grandmother, who had been totally deaf from childhood, had the skills of sign language from that early relationship. This fact was not known to the prison authorities and had it been they might have paired the two off differently.

That night both the cellmates had a good feeling about their companion, both had shared information with just about the only other person on the wing that was likely to keep shut.

Higson however was to have a very disturbed night on the landing above. His uneasy sleep was filled with strange images of invasive searches, something he'd loathed and feared and, if he'd had the vocabulary to express it, regarded as a legalised sexual assault. Why? When it had nothing at all to do with sex?

Maybe he was just not admitting to himself that what he hated and feared about the process was that the examiner had touched something he wanted touched again but did not dare to admit it. He'd taken care to avoid notice but he'd tried to find it himself in the shower, terrified that one of the others would notice his furtive gropings. Now his guilt and shame was haunting his dreams.

After a goodly interlude peppered with guttural expletives, expressing sordid pleasures relating to his newly discovered yet forbidden erogenous area, he finally awoke with a gasp when he'd been violated by a faceless prison officer wielding the detached leg of a wooden chair. The sticky damp patch under his body, familiar from his teenage years, must have been a coincidence. His erect member wouldn't go down and he was afraid to go back to sleep in case the tormenting nightmare returned. But his waking thoughts were obsessively of those images he'd dreamed. His arsehole burned and what he did not know was his prostate throbbed with excitement, begging to be massaged. With shocked realisation he sensed the uncanny silence in the cell, the familiar grunts, groans, snores and noisy breathing of Carson in the bunk above were missing, Higson knew as only a burglar would, that Carson was holding his breath and it became obvious he had been listening to Higson's torment but what had he heard? His orgasm?

There was a cough from the upper bunk, a cough just enough to reintroduce much needed oxygen and to allow Carson to cum without a sigh or heavy breathing, the cough you make when you don't want your brother or room mate to know you just terminated your wank. His big hand, coarsely thatched with red hair was snugly wrapped around his thick cock, and moved almost imperceptibly over his spit slick purple glans to bring his thick wad up and out of his piss slit onto his beefy, callused fingers then silently to his auburn bearded lips for disposal. What would be said out there on the wing if it became known that big Red Carson, former hell's angel, who'd stabbed his wife and her hell's angel lover to death in front of his own children, had got off on the sound of his cell mate wet dreaming? What might have worried him slightly more had he been given to such concerns, was that image in his mind as he came, the fantasy that pushed him into full flowing loss of his manly seed was not of a female of the species but his imagining of his cell mate, Higson's hairy arsehole wrapped tightly around that very cock Higson's grunts of lust as Carson's meat poker vividly portrayed in his brain as it spewed his load first in and then on that pouting, oh so manly portal.

Carson was not a man given to harbouring anxieties for long and he soon drifted off to sleep, however, Higson was certain aware that the secrecy of his lurid sexual fantasy was in peril. He was instinctively certain that Carson's cough was intended to hide his own orgasm. Could that really just be a coincidence?

But as Carson had briefly concerned himself with the image of Higson's beconing, pouting arse, Higson wondered what it would be like to feel much much more than a prison security officer's finger looking for hidden contraband inside his shitter. How could he ever dare to find out?

Unless the man concerned happened to be just as scared of being found out as Higson was himself? As Carson's snores began to ring around the concrete and steel of their cell once more, Higson racked his racing mind for a scheme to introduce the biker in the top bunk to his desperately hungry fuck hole.