Lawyer Owns Me

This is a work of fiction. Nothing in it actaully happened. It contains incidents of unsafe sex which I do not encourage.

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Chapter 3

It might seem strange that I would subject myself to the humiliation and degradation inflicted by Mike, but he has such control over me that if I don't do exactly what he says he could send me to state prison. My "probation" under Mike's supervision is for seven years. The prison sentence would be for 25, as I was found guilty of a number of charges – none of them true.

One condition of my getting probation was to serve a night in jail – so I would know exactly what I would be facing for 25 years if I stepped out of line.

Mike drove me to the prison and walked me to the reception area. I was "processed" given a jailhouse suit and a number. The guard who processed me grinned at another prisoner – obviously a trustee with duties and privileges – and said, "Take him to C dash 1"

"But I thought Clarence was Monk's punk, or rather cellmate," the trustee said.

"Just for tonight we are going to give Mr. Adams here the privilege of sharing a cell with Monk," the guard said. "It was his lawyer's idea and Monk agreed."

"Oh kay," the trustee said. He then grinned at me and said, "Right this way."

I followed him out the door, through a courtyard and to a cell block building. A guard unlocked the door and we went down the hall to a corner cell. As we went down the hall, inmates came to the front of their cells to gawk at me.

"My, he's a fine lookin' piece," one of them said. "If Monk leaves enough of him, I would love to rent him out. Wonder how much Monk would want."

"He's just here for the night," my guide yelled over his shoulder. "Monk will probably keep him to himself." Then he turned to me. "That will be good for you. I think."

Just then we came to the end of hall. There was a very spacious corner cell. It had obviously been three cells at one time, but the dividing walls had been removed. In it I saw a flat-screen TV, a barcalounger, a small refrigerator, a tall locker, a set of weights, a steamer trunk, a shelf with holding glasses of assorted sizes and a set of bunk beds. In the far corner were a toilet and sink, and next to that was a porcelain bathtub. It certainly didn't look like a prison cell.

The other occupant, who I assume was Monk, was nowhere to be seen.

"Monk is getting a massage in the infirmary," my trustee said, then handed me a set of sheets, a pillow case and some towels. "You have the top bunk. I suggest you make it. Monk doesn't like things untidy."

He then shut the door, locked it and fairly skipped down the hall. "I think Monk is going to like this one," I could hear him chortling.

I quickly made my bed then decided to try out the barcalounger. I started to doze when heard a noise at the door. I looked up and saw a guard opening the door and a large African-American in a prison suit standing next to him waiting to be admitted.

"Get the fuck out of my chair," the black man, who I assumed correctly was Monk. "Only Monk sits in Monk's chair." He grabbed me by the shoulders, slapped me hard across the face twice and pushed me into the corner. "Go stand there motherfucker, until I say you can move."

"Everything OK Monk?" said the guard through the door. If I expected any help from him I was wrong. Monk was clearly in charge.

"Yeah, it's all right. I just have to train this piss ant. "What's your name, piss ant?" Monk said in my direction.

"Phillip."

"Not anymore it isn't. It's Fuckhead. Got it?

I started to say something when Monk slapped me across the face again, harder this time.

"Got it?"

"I got it."

"Good. Hop up on your bunk and wait until I call you." He then turned to the guard. "You can go now. I'm in for now."

Monk sat in the lounger, took out a cellphone (I was told prisoners weren't allowed to have them. But Monk was no ordinary prisoner).

Then Monk looked at me and said. "I just had a nice relaxing massage. Massages make me horny. You are going to have to do something about that and help me cum. Would you rather suck my dick or have me fuck you in the ass?"

As he was speaking, Monk had taken out his dick. It was enormous. At least 12 inches long and very thick. And it was soft. God knows what it was like hard I certainly knew that would hurt if it went in my ass, which at that point was still virgin. I had tried to make the best of a bad situation.

"I would rather suck it," I said meekly.

"That's what I thought you would say. Fuckheads always do. Get down from there."

I climbed down from the top bunk and stood there, uncertain of what to do next. It didn't take long to find out. Monk went into the steamer trunk and took out what looked like a tube of lubricant. He began rubbing some on his cock.

"Drop your pants, bend over the bed. Get ready to get fucked in the ass."

"But I said I would rather suck."

"I know what the fuck you said, Fuckhead," Monk growled. "I just want to show you that what you would rather do don't mean shit. The only thing that matters is what Monk would rather do. And Monk would rather fuck. Now bend over."

I had no choice. The next thing I felt was Monks fingers massaging my hole and putting some lube in it.

"Very nice, very tight. Monk is going to enjoy this."

I could feel the head of Monk's huge member trying to make its way into my hole. The pain was intense. Then he gave a mighty shove and was halfway in. "Oh, man, that feels good, Fuckhead."

He began to thrust rhythmically, slowly pumping and getting deeper with each movement. His hands pulled my shoulder toward him so I was almost standing, his crotch tight against my ass.

"Fuck him, Monk, go," I heard a voice say. I looked over toward the door and saw the guard and trustee who had brought me to the cell watching me get abused.

Without withdrawing his cock he maneuvered me so we were facing the door. "Look, Fuckhead, you've got an audience," Monk said, then he grabbed my ear and pulled. "Squeal, while I fuck you. Squeal,"

The guard and inmate howled. "That's it, squeal."

I tried to squeal as best I could "Ennnh"

Monk pulled on my ear again, "Louder."

As I tried it again at the top of my lungs, I could feel Monk cumming, I thought his seed was going to go through my belly button.

"Yeoww," Monk shouted as he pumped his cum into me. Slowly his cock relaxed and he backed away. "Go over there and get me a towel, Fuckhead. Then clean yourself up. God, you're a mess."

I did as he asked, and two witnesses slowly drifted away. "Man, Monk sure took that pussyboy for a ride."

After we had cleaned up, a bell rang. "Dinner time," Monk said.

We walked down to the end of the hall and across to the dining commons. We got into the cafeteria line when Monk said, "I'm going to go sit over there. You bring my tray to me, Fuckhead."

"I can't carry two trays."

"That's right, Fuckhead," he said and suddenly switched to the third person. "You load up Monk's tray and bring it to him. Then go back and get yours."

"That means I have to stand in line twice."

"You got it," Monk said over his shoulder as he swaggered to a table and began a jovial conversation with some fellow inmates.

I dutifully filled a tray with food, that looked barely edible and brought it to Monk.

"Attaboy, Fuckhead. Now you can go get yours."

I stood in line another ten minutes, collected my tray of food and headed towards Monk, who was waving me over. He was about halfway through his dinner, as I put some potatoes on the fork and started to eat. Just then another fork jabbed my hand. Hard.

"You don't eat until Monk tells you," Monk said. "Monk might still be hungry and need some of your food."

So that was another indignity I would have to endure. Not only serving Monk his dinner but turning over whatever he wanted of mine.

It turned out that Monk didn't want any of my food tonight, but by the time I ate it, the meal was cold. Monk had headed back to the cell, leaving his dishes for me to bus.

When I got back to the cell Monk was in the barcalounger watching television and sipping on something sparkling. Then I saw the bottle on the table beside him and recognized the label. Dom Perignon. God, he is in prison drinking $200 a bottle champagne. Monk told me to go stand next to the bed, and he watched and sipped as if I wasn't there.

Then the guard who had been there while I was fucked was suddenly standing at the door. "Hey, Marty, want a glass. It's pretty good shit," Monk asked, raising his glass.

"Sure," the guard said. "Can't pass that up."

"Hey, Fuckhead, bring me a glass," Monk said.

I dutifully went to shelf, grabbed a wine glass and brought it to Monk. "He poured some champagne into the glass and said, "Take it over to Marty. And don't spill any of it."

I delivered it to the guard who took it from me without comment, then raised the glass in Monk's direction. "Thanks, Man."

The two began discussing pro football and I went back and stood by the bed. Finally, Monk, looked at me and said, "Hey, Fuckhead, you want some?"

"That would be nice," I said.

"Then bring me a glass."

Looking forward to how the taste of fine champagne would make my last few hours in prison tolerable, I wasted little time in fetching a glass and handing it to Monk.

But when he took the glass, Monk did not reach for the bottle. Instead he unzipped his pants took out that cock that just a few hours ago had been up my ass, and started pissing into the glass. When it was almost full Monk raised it and started to hand it to me. "Here's your Dom Perignon, Fuckhead. Recycled." He let out a huge laugh and was joined by guard.

"Drink it, Fuckhead. Don't make me have to get up and pour it down your throat."

I had no choice but take the glass and drink the warm, salty, smelly urine.

"That's it, down the hatch," Monk said, chuckling.

Just as I was finishing my cocktail, a bell rang in the building.

"Light's out Monk," the guard said. "Thanks for the champagne."

"No problem. Fuckhead, go get his glass."

I did, and returned it to the sink. "Wash `em. Then come over to the bunk," Mike ordered.

After I cleaned the glasses and headed for the bunk. I saw Monk laying on the bottom bed on his back, his semi-erect cock in his hand.

"Come give me a good-night blow job," Monk said. "Suck it nice and slow."

I got on the bed between Monk's legs and moved my mouth tentatively toward his cock, which was semi-erect. I put my lips around the cockhead and began to suck.

"Ah, that's it Fuckhead. And keep your teeth out of the way, or I'll knock them out and make your mouth a real pussy."

I moved my mouth slowly down the shaft. Before I got halfway down the tip was at my throat. I thought I was going to gag.

"Quite a mouthful isn't it, Fuckhead?" Monk said with a laugh. "Now take it all in and use your tongue."

I tried to get down the shaft, but it was so big that I thought I was going to choke, I worked my tongue along the sides and moved my mouth up and down on his shaft.

"Slower, Fuckhead," Monk said. "Keep it slow...ooh"

Monk's cock began to stiffen and he grabbed my head and forced it down. The cum suddenly shot out in a warm, sticky spurt. I wanted to pull my mouth away, but Monk held my head firm. "Swallow it, Fuckhead. Take that cum down your throat. That's good."

Monk released his grip and I finally lifted my head. "That was good, Fuckhead," Monk said. "You know if I had you for more than a day I'd rent you out. Some of those guys down the hall would pay quite a bit to have a bitch like you for awhile. Of course, I would have to knock your teeth out then. They would want a real pussy mouth."

You can imagine the chilling effect that had on me. That existence would truly be hell. Not only having to serve Monk, but on a whim any number of jailhouse perverts.

"Now go uo to your berth and be quiet. I'll call you if I need you."

Fortunately Monk did not need me again, and was still sleeping when the trustee came to take me away. "Your ride home is here," he said, and as we walked toward the reception area he gave me grin. "I hope you enjoyed your stay here."

I later learned that Monk runs a lucrative narcotics business from his jail cell. His outside gang is so powerful and threatening that virtually the entire correctional department is under his control. The warden might run the prison but Monk runs the warden.

Chapter 4

How I came into that world is a tale that defies belief. I was born into a wealthy family. My father was one of the top criminal lawyers in the state and later became a judge. He made a fortune with investments, probably trading favors from the bench for stock tips, but he was so well-respected nobody raised any eyebrows.

Partially because he spent so much time at work, my father was a distant parent. He took just a passing interest in my schoolwork and I can't remember ever playing catch with him in the backyard. He pretty much left the child rearing to my mother. She had wanted a daughter desperately (finally got one six years later) and was so disappointed when I arrived she dressed me in girls' clothing until I was three years old. That could partially explain my confusion about my own sexuality.

I wasn't really attracted to girls in high school and was a virgin until I was about 25. I did have some attraction to boys, but never acted on it. My best friend through high school, Carl Bayless, was an almost constant companion. I probably had some urges toward him, but they were latent. We sometimes walked with arms linked, and slept occasionally in one another's bed. But, again, sexual activity between us was nonexistent. After graduation he moved to New York City, worked in the theater and "came out" publicly. But we had lost contact by then.

While in high school we were bullied somewhat, specifically by Terry Thompson, who years later would become the town sheriff and play a major role in my legal troubles. One day he and his pals isolated us on the playground, slapped us around and threatened to "pants" us in front of all the girls if we didn't do everything they said from then on. That involved things like standing in line for a movie, then surrendering our place to Terry and his girlfriend just as we got to the ticket window. We also had to give up some or our lunch if Terry or one of his friends fancied it.

I did have a "date" for the senior prom, primarily because my parents really wanted me to. It was one of the few times my father took an interest in my activities. I took a plain girl from the neighborhood, but while the other couples spent the night loosely "chaperoned" and the El Monte Hotel, my date and I went to our separate houses. That was basically fine with me.

After high school I spent two years in college and my father's insistence, but soon was able to parlay my interest in antiques into a lucrative business. My father was impressed at my taste and judgment, and let me leave school and start the business. It was an enormous success and I traveled to various cities around the country picking up hidden gems. Soon decorators were referring their clients who wanted a "vintage" look to my store. Collectors, too, were regular customers. I was making a very nice living.

In my travels I found myself taken to gay bars by a lot of the fellow dealers. I wasn't really into "picking up" guys then, but I found the atmosphere much more to my liking than straight bars. I still thought I was totally straight.

I would have lunch regularly at a diner near the store, and a very pretty woman named Florence was usually my waitress. Now Florence and I were in high school at the same time (she was year ahead of me) and she and the girls she ran around with had no use for me then. But as my business and bank accounts grew she became increasingly friendly – no coincidence as I would find out – but I could never work up the nerve to ask her for a date. Finally she took the initiative. "I get off work at six tonight. How would you like to come to my place for dinner?" she said. "You won't have to leave me a tip."

The offer sounded irresistible, and I accepted instantly. "Good," she said, writing her address on a cocktail napkin. "Come by about seven."

Nervously I made my way to the address she provided, which wasn't that easy to find. I rang the bell and she answered the door wearing a provocative low-cut outfit with a very short skirt. I handed her the flowers I had brought.

"Oh how sweet," she cooed. "Go make yourself a drink. I don't have that much. I hope you like vodka."

I didn't particularly but managed a few gulps. Dinner itself was OK, although she obviously was better at serving food than she was at cooking it. During dinner she made frequent contact, touching my hand for emphasis and letting in linger a tad too long. And when she leaned over she made sure I had a good view of her ample breasts.

After dinner she suggested we sit on the coach. We weren't there for long before she took my hand and put it on her breasts. "You like these?" she asked seductively. "They are very sensitive."

Then her hands were busy unzipping my fly and toying with my cock, which was beginning to get hard. She soon had her mouth around it and was giving me my first blow job. Until that moment the only stimulation my member had received was from my own hand. It was one of most glorious things I had ever experienced, and it didn't take long before I started to cum.

"I'm sorry, I'm cumming," I yelled. She was able to pull her mouth off in time and pumped the cum out of my dick with her hand. "I love you," I said as my dick was shaking with pleasure.

"I hope you like that, honey," she said sweetly.

We began meeting at her place a few nights a week and my parents began to notice my absences (I was still living at home). My relationship with Florence progressed and on about the third date we were in the bedroom fucking. I even started spending the night, convinced that this love.

One night as we were basking in post coital bliss, she said, "Since we're in love, why don't we get married?"

It was the first time she raised the issue, but not the last. I really didn't think I was ready for the commitment that I said I would think about it. She kept after it, and I was so afraid of losing the first sex partner and girlfriend I had ever had that I finally agreed.

When we set the date, I was surprised that she didn't want a big, elaborate wedding. "Just family and a few close friends," she said.

My parents had little to do with planning the ceremony, Florence and her widowed mother pretty much did everything. My mother and father did offer to pick up most of the expenses.

My father wanted Florence to sign a prenuptial agreement to protect my business and inheritance. That never happened. "Oh, sweetie, that sounds so nasty," she said when I mentioned it, usually stroking my dick as she talked. "Don't you trust me? You know that I would never take advantage of my schnookums."

Soon she had quit her job and was "helping" me run the business. What exactly she did I am not sure, other than to talk on her cell phone. That is until she made a personnel recommendation. "Sweetie," she said. "You spend so much time working on the books. Your accountant is so slow and I don't think very good (as if she had any idea what the job entailed). I have very good friend who is just a genius with numbers. Why don't we have him do the books."

Old Barney was my father's CPA and had been doing the books for the business since I opened it. I must admit he was a little slow and getting up in years so I agreed to talk to her guy, Bruce. And he was very impressive. He was much more tech-savvy than Barney, whose old-fashioned adding machine and a pencil were all the tools he used. Bruce talked about electronic spread sheets and other high tech terms that obviously would make our operation more efficient. Two other factors worked in his favor. He knew the antique business almost as well as I did, and he had a gorgeous smile and beautiful deep blue eyes.

We had been married a year, things going smoothly both at work and in the bedroom when my father dropped dead of a heart attack on the golf course. My mother was so devastated that she suffered a fatal stroke two months later. It was up to me and my sister to take care of the estate. After the minor assets (paintings, jewelry, my dad's gun collection) were divided between the two of us, what was left was the multi-million dollar house and a sizable stock portfolio. In order to make the disposition easier, my sister took the house, I took the portfolio. In addition there was a perpetual trust that paid us each a $200,000 annuity for ten years. At Florence's insistence I turned the management of the portfolio, and all our personal finances, over to Bruce.

Over the couple of years our sex life started to deteriorate. Flo joined a couple of "women's clubs" , that included frequent trips, some just for a day, some overnight. I, too, was traveling a good deal, often accompanied by Bruce. During lonely nights at home and on the road I began to frequent gay bars again. Every once in awhile I would run into Bruce, who always remained a discreet distance but would acknowledge me with a wave and that gorgeous smile.

Bruce one day came to me with a worried look. While I thought things were going fine, he said that the business had some cash-flow problems. I said if it was really a big deal, we could just sell some stocks. But using a variety of terms I didn't understand he said the tax ramifications would be severe. He said what we needed was a partner with some cash. And, (surprise, surprise) he and my wife had someone in mind. They said that their friend, John, had some disposable cash he wanted to invest, would take no part in managing the business and take a dividend only after we had made at least a 20 per cent profit in a year. So I signed away half my business to someone I didn't really know but who had come highly recommended.

The new system seemed to working fine for the next few months. Bruce kept giving me papers to sign ("routine business expenses" he said) but as long as I was able to put money in my bank account and maintain a steady flow of customers I was OK with the new system. The only negative was my relationship with Florence. Our sex life became non-existent, and when we were home together she was distant. I kept asking her if anything was wrong, but she always answered with a brief, "Why no, Sweetie."

I began to spend more times in the evening at the gay bars. One night Bruce walked in and came over to me. "Hey," he said. "I know we have our separate agendas in here, but a friend of mine has been wanting to meet you. He's over there at that table, why don't you come over and I'll introduce you."

We went to the table and there sat one of the most gorgeous men I had ever seen. He was young, but he had to be over 21 or he would not have been allowed in the bar, or so I thought. "This is Kent," Bruce said. "Kent, this is the man you have been admiring from afar." I must say I was smitten instantly, and when Kent motioned that I sit next to him, I went down instantly. Bruce sat on the bench next to me and kind of forced me to be right next to Kent. Not that I minded. The thigh-to-thigh contact was exciting and I started to get hard. Kent gave me a knowing smile and Bruce ordered a round of what the called `rattlesnakes."

I wasn't much of a drinker, preferring white wine and champagne to hard booze, but when Bruce raised his shot glass and said, "Down the hatch", I followed his lead. The drink tasted good, no alcohol flavor at all, yet the effect was instantaneous and powerful. It felt great.

By now Kent's hand was on my thigh and soon found my growing hard-on. He smiled at me, leaned over and gave me a little kiss, Bruce ordered another round and after that shot I was pretty smashed and losing my inhibitions. Kent continued his handiwork and by now my boner was fully formed. I was in heaven.

"Why don't we go to the park," Kent whispered in my ear. "I would like to get a mouthful of that."

The park he referred to was across the street and a popular place for gay trysts. Though the activities were technically illegal, the police pretty much stayed away as long as there was no violence or unruly behavior. Kent didn't have to ask me twice. Bruce let us out of the booth, winked at me and said, "See you tomorrow, you dog."

I tried to suppress my grin as Kent took my hand and led me to a little clearing in the park. "Shouldn't we go to a place more secluded?" I asked

"No this is fine," Kent said, then unzipped my pants and started to work. Damn, he was good. Better than any blow job Florence had ever given me. He started by just licking my shaft, then took just the head in his mouth and worked it with his tongue.

"Oh, God, Kent," I moaned.

Then he took the whole shaft in his mouth and began moving up and down. I was in ecstasy as this beautiful creature worked my dick. I got harder and harder and was about to explode his mouth when I heard voices and a flashlight shined right into my eyes.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I heard the familiar voice of Sheriff Terry Thompson. "Jeezus, I knew you were a fagott," he said to me. "But now you are a child molester. You pervert."

Then he looked at Kent. "Did he make you do this boy?"

Kent's reply let me know I was suddenly in a whole lot of trouble. "Yes sir, he did." Kent replied. "He had a gun and he made me do this to him."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Gun?

"Where is the gun?" said the sheriff, trying to sound skeptical.

"He threw it over there," Kent said, pointing over the sheriff's shoulder.

"Go have a look," Terry said to his deputy.

I knew the search would prove my innocence. Or not.

"Found something, Sheriff," the deputy said. He then came back carrying a revolver.

"This the gun?" Terry asked Kent.

"I think so Sir," Kent said. I recognized the gun as one of my father's collection. That's when I figured that I was being set up.

"And how old are you boy? Let me see your ID," Terry said. He didn't wait for answer but took a look at Kent's driver's license.

"Sixteen," the sherrif said. "Six fucking teen." Then he turned to his deputy and pointed at me.

"Cuff him," he said. "You're under arrest for lewd acts with a minor, child endangerment, kidnapping and indecent exposure."

I was taken to the jailhouse, used the phone call to contact Mike, my lawyer, who told me he would down to arrange bail in the morning.

It was a sleepless night. I had my own cell, but there were others incarcerated across the hall and the sheriff made sure they knew what I was charged with. They leered at me, telling me that if we were in the same cell they would keep busy, "Think you could handle this" one of them said, waving his oversized dick. "I know you like young boys, but a man is what you need to put you in your place."

I met with Mike the following morning in a dingy conference room. "What the hell were you doing with a kid," Mike said. "I didn't know you were a fag, much less a child molester."

This didn't strike me as the proper way for a lawyer to talk to his client, but all I wanted was to get the hell out of there so we could clear this up. "I was set up," I said. "I didn't bring the gun there. Somebody planted it."

"I wouldn't bring that up until the trial," Mike said. "Let me go to talk to the D.A. and we'll try to bail you out."

Mike left me in that dingy room for the better part of an hour, then returned looking grim. "The D.A. showed me the evidence on this case, which is pretty strong. Plus they are going to file two unrelated charges. How long have you been skimming from your company, and why did you lie on your tax form the last two years? You are being charged with embezzlement, illegal gambling and income tax fraud. That's quite a package."

It was too much for me. I screamed at the top of my lungs, "NONE OF THAT IS TRUE!"

"True or not, we are going to have to mount a defense for all of it, unless I can make a deal with the D.A."

"I am not making any deals," I said.

I probably should have. I agreed to a combined trial in front of a judge without a jury (another mistake on my part, but Mike said it was the best way). As for the charges with Kent, I didn't have a chance. All I could do was deny, and they had evidence: witnesses who saw us leave the bar together as if I were forcing him, the gun, and Kent himself. They dressed him an oversized suit, cut his hair and generally changed his appearance so he looked like an innocent boy rather than the seductive man I saw that night.

For the financial crimes, the evidence again was solid. It turns out Bruce had been "cooking the books" making it appear that I had been taking money and withholding it from my partner. And those slips I signed were really betting slips with a local bookmaker. And Bruce, who did our taxes the last couple of years, played fast and loose with the truth, but made it seem like it was to my benefit.

On top of everything else, Florence filed for divorce, seeking half my assets. Mike said the best we could do would be to give her my half of the company and half my annuity, while I kept the house and the bank accounts.

Then she moved in with John, who, I found out, had been fucking her all along. Plus years later I learned that John had not put a dime into the company, that Bruce had moved funds from one of my accounts to another to make it seem like it was fresh money. I basically gave away half my company and in the divorce Florence got the other half.

But I had more worries. I was found guilty on all counts and was looking at 25 years in prison. But Mike and the prosecutor cooked up a deal that the judge approved. The jail sentence would be suspended. I would be sentenced to seven years probation, and at the end of that time would be free of all charges. But the terms of the probation were severe, as I learned at the sentencing hearing.

"Your attorney will control all your assests," the judge said. "You will live under the same roof and he will be responsible for supervising you. As an officer of the court he is obliged to tell me if YOU STEP SO MUCH AS A FOOT OUT OF LINE. He has sole discretion. One word from him and your jail sentence will be enforced. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I muttered.

"One more thing," the D.A. said. "His attorney and I agreed that the defendant serve on full day in jail. That way he knows what's in store for him if he violates any part of his probation."

"So ordered," the judge said.

And the next day I was delivered to Fort Wilson State prison and put into the cell with Monk. You know how that went.

Mike was waiting when I came to the prison's discharge room.

End of Part 2

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As we drove away Mike suddenly transformed from my lawyer to my master.

"OK, this is the way it's going to be," he said. "You do everything I tell you, you don't hesitate and you don't question. All it takes is one word from me and you are back in there (he gestured toward the prison) for 25 years."

I assumed we would staying at Mike's house. But he just drove past it, and I noticed a For Sale sign on it. He anticipate my question.

"We are going to live at your house," he said. "And since I won't be needing mine I'm going to sell it."

Well, I thought at least I would be in familiar surroundings. We arrived at my house, and I immediately headed up to my bedroom. "Not so fast, Faggot," Mike said, using the term for the first time. "That's my room now."

It was a three bedroom house, so I shrugged and figured I would get one of the other bedrooms. I moved toward one of them.

"No, Faggot, I need one these rooms for an office and another for a guest/playroom. You will live in the basement."

He walked me down to my primitive quarters and laughed. "I think you will be quite comfortable here," he said. "And take off your clothes. You won't be needing them. You will find your wardrobe in the chest of drawers. Then come up and make my lunch. I'm hungry."

Thus did my new life begin.

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