Tommy 3
Ordinarily, very nasty thoughts would be roaming my mind as I watched a good-looking young man undress in front of me. So here was Tommy, with his beautiful eyes, stripping off the orange prison jumpsuit in front of me, and all I was thinking was how much I'd like to hold him. Not push his head down onto the head of my straining, slippery cock. Not how I'd like to grab him by the hips and ram my pole forcefully into his almost hairless ass. No, it would appear I wanted to hold him close. Hell, maybe I'd even stroke his hair a bit and kiss his little ears. Ahhhhh! How cute, Tahoe's in love!
Reality check. This is High Desert State Prison, folks. B-Yard. Level 4. Half the fucks here are doing all day and the other half are headed that way with a quickness. Romance is NOT part of the program. Romance will get you killed.
So what's a romantic to do? Ok, Ok, yes, I admit it; I am a hopeless romantic. Always have been and always will be. But I'm also a pragmatist (being stripped searched a couple hundred times will do that to you) and I Know, with a capital K, that it is not acceptable to fall in love in the joint. Lust? Fine. Love? Never! For one thing, you just never know how long someone's going to be around. Transfers happen all the time. Riots on the yard happen all the time. It's the way the system is designed in California--they never let you get too comfortable. This ain't Shawshank, and we're not going to spend the next twenty years together. Max time people spend on a yard is around 4 years anymore, and that's rare. Usually 2 years and your off to another pen. Or at least another yard at the same one, and then it's "see ya guys, it's been fun". You have no control over when and how often you get moved around. It's better not to let that love thing fuck up the works. And for another thing, there are enough bits and pieces broken on me already; I don't need to add my heart.
Well, if I can't allow myself love, I can certainly allow lust! So I watch him undress. His skin is perfect. Translucent is the word that comes to mind. I've never really been exactly sure what that translucent skin thing meant when I've read it in other stories, but I know Tommy has it. I just know he does. He's very pale. From my vantage of a few feet I can see little blue veins tracing here and there on the more sensitive spots: just below his armpits, at the hollow of his throat, his lower abdomen. He's pulled his arms free from the jumpsuit and the top has fallen to rest low on his narrow hips, held there by the last snap. He leans over to unfasten the latches on the root beer-colored plastic sandals that they use for transporting cons around. As he bends to reach the sandals his stomach forms rolls as it compresses upon itself. Not the large rolls of a heavy man, but those tiny little rolls of children or the very fit. I may have sighed aloud, I'm not sure, but Tommy looked up and met my eyes briefly before returning to his task. Straightening, he kicked each foot to dislodge the sandals and undid the last snap on the orange jumpsuit, allowing it to fall and pool around his ankles. He stood there briefly wearing only a pair of prison issue boxers, as if unsure what to do next. He then began to stretch. His arms slowly rose from his sides, and his back began to arch back causing his hips to thrust forward. He clasped his hands together at the top in a reverse grip, pulling them back as far as he can, getting the most out of the exercise. As he did this he let out a light moan, but it really wasn't a moan. It was more of a purring, higher pitched, like what a tiger kitten might sound like. I could only lie there and stare.
I noticed his armpits first. I've always found the pits wildly erotic for some reason. It's mostly the scent I imagine, but I do enjoy the way they look. You know: the way they appear sort of scooped out and how the chest muscles form a little hood where they attach to the shoulders? Tommy's pit hair was very sparse and just a shade darker than the hair on his head. I could see the sheen of moisture glistening on each little patch. It was all I could do not to rush over and deeply inhale his aroma and give them a quick lick. Tracing his nicely rounded shoulders, my eyes traveled the length of his arms, past the sweet, kissable indentation at their crooks, over the delicate bones of his wrists, to hands that were slender and smooth. He possessed long nimble fingers; his nails were boyishly dirty and appeared to have been gnawed on a bit.
Allowing my gaze to wander further, I noticed he had three tiny little moles that formed a triangle on his chest. They were slightly lower and to the left of where his throat ended. And that throat was magnificent--made for kisses. It sloped down from his jaw like a smooth waterfall, flowing into the curve of the hollow that formed at the base where the collarbones met. (I lewdly thought that the bowl would make a fine cum catcher and how much I'd like to fill it). His chest was as smooth as his throat. There wasn't a hint of hair to be seen and made me wonder if puberty had yet to pay a visit to this young man. And if it had, it certainly hadn't stayed long. He didn't have much definition to his muscles, but they appeared solid. His ribs were visible, but the effect was sleek rather than gaunt. The belly button -- I couldn't think of it as a navel, he appeared to young and boys have belly buttons -- was neither an innie or an outie, but was flush with his stomach and had one of those little hood flaps across the top where the skin was pulled tight. It was adorable.
I guess I had been taking my time examining him, because before I completed my examination he was standing there in the shorts I had given him and preparing to hop up onto the top bunk.
"Getting ready to sack out for the night?" I asked.
"Yeah, I've been up since three this morning. We left Quentin pretty early and the bus made stops at Tracy, Mule Creek, and Folsom before we came here. I'm pretty beat." He replied. I could hear in his voice the he was tired.
"Cool. I'll turn the TV off, it's about time I hit the hay myself. The C/O's bring breakfast around 7. I'll get you up a little before then if you aren't already awake." I told him.
"Thanks. I'll see you in the morning. Good night." He said before lying down on the bunk.
"Good night." I said, as I arose from my bunk and turned off the overhead light. New guys usually don't mess with lights, or really touch much of anything, until they get used to the program. I clicked off the TV on the way back and prepared for the next part of Tommy's initiation. I had something I wanted to do -- had wanted to do since he'd walked into the cell. Has it really only been 15 minutes? I wanted Tommy to still be awake or it.
I lay back on my bunk and removed the gym shorts I'd been wearing. I did so loud enough that Tommy would be able to hear and know what I'd done. My cock had been straining so long by now that it was throbbing in tune with my heartbeat. I licked my palm to give it a light coating of saliva. Grasping my cock, I began gently rubbing the circumcised head. Almost immediately pre-cum began streaming from the tip; my cock had been anticipating this moment and was prepared. I slathered my natural lubricant all around and down the shaft, and then gripped its length firmly. I began to caress it, slowly at first, then with increasing speed before slowing again. The movement of my pumping fist making a sound, a sound all men and boys know so well; the sound of self-gratification. It is unmistakable. Tommy knew exactly what I was doing just three feet away. In my mind I pictured Tommy: his sleek torso, his nimble fingers, his delicate pouting lips. And I groaned, not the white tiger purring of a pleasurable stretch, but a deep sound. It was a rumbling; almost inaudible to the ear it was so low in octave. It could be felt as much as heard as it radiated outward through the air. Then I came, ropes of cum surging out of my cock as if they had been released from their own private prison to splatter upon my chest and belly in escape. And as I climaxed, in so low a voice as to be but a breath passing over mouthed words, I whispered, "Tommy, that feels so good!" Loud enough to register on Tommy's subconscious mind, yet soft enough to make him wonder if he'd heard anything at all.
Now spent, I lay there, panting softly, making no attempt to clean myself. I wanted the scent to reach Tommy. The scent of male sex: I wanted that scent to fill the cell. I wanted him to know that he was in a place where men lived: Where men did secret, terrible, wonderful things.
To be continued....