They say that prison rehabilitates you. That’s what the politicians and law-and-order folks like to think anyway. The idea is that after a taste of life in the pen you never wanna go back. As a result, well, you give up on crime and try to make a more valuable contribution to society. A spell inside’s supposed to educate you, to make you a better person.
My name’s John, by the way, and, my time in the big house educated me all right. It educated me to appreciate that life just ain’t fucking fair, man. The things that go down, they just ain't right. It’s fucking obscene what those prison gangs can get away with. My time in the pen certainly educated me. It taught me to always show respect to big black thugs and their bitches. It taught me that some people are outside the law, and they can do just what they darn well please.
Before I was sentenced to time in Jessop I had a wife, a job and a social circle. When I came out I had none of that, nothing at all. I’d been kicked, punched, humiliated and even fucking ass-***** by the cruel black men who ruled the joint with an iron fist. Being an ex con, I had no way to earn a decent living once released, and was spurned by my former friends. Now I have to slave away at a minimum wage job that I can’t quit or I’ll be breaking my probation terms. Oh, and while I was inside I learned something else. I learned that my wife had ditched my ass for the evil black man who put me inside. My spell in the big house educated me all right, that’s for sure.
Looking back, life had been pretty good until my arrest. I was aged 35 and had just bought a smart row house facing the park after saving about a third of my salary each month over five years. I worked at John Hopkins as a lab technician, and had met my pretty wife Estelle on an online dating site. She was a HR administrator downtown, a busty redhead with a sexy southern drawl, lots of attitude and plenty of curves. She was divorced with a bitter ex husband in Towson who hated her, she said. Her online profile said that she was “looking to better herself”, and I guess you could say the bitch did just that.
I reckon marrying me was a good deal for Estelle, at the time at least. She’d been commuting in from Ellicott City in a gas-guzzling Ford, and I guess the prospect of a free place to stay a mile from downtown and a joint bank account made the bitch’s mind up. I’d fallen for her big time, despite her being ten years younger, and dated her for a year before she agreed to be my bride. I think now that the house purchase was the clincher. Just weeks after I bought my dream home, she accepted my proposition of marriage and moved in.
I’d better tell you straight that Baltimore is still a pretty segregated town, and the area that we lived, close to John Hopkins, was right on the dividing line. It was nice where we were man, but just three or four short blocks away and you could have been in an episode of the fucking Wire. The melting pot was Patterson Park, right on our doorstep, where you’d see those big black studs with their muscles, bling and vests mingling and coming on to the white girls, including our pretty wives and girlfriends. I’m telling you man, even if the local white women were out with their kids or even their husbands it didn’t stop the come-ons and suggestive comments. Estelle used to jog in the park, and I admit it made me somewhat uneasy. I tried jogging with her a couple of times but couldn’t keep up the pace. Eventually she got sick of waiting for me and just sped up and ran alone.
Like I said, life was good but one thing continued to rile me. The head of security at John Hopkins was a coffee-skinned black man called Johnson who seemed to have taken a dislike to me. Johnson was a mean sonofabitch who barked orders at me like he was my superior, which technically he was. He would give me stern reprimands for parking my car in the wrong spot or using the wrong entrance to the hospital. It was like he ruled the place man, even the doctors were scared of him. He was always coming on to the women who visited the patients too, always ready with a suggestive remark and a broad smile. I know for a fact he fucked more than one of them in his office. I heard the noises.
From our bedroom window, I often spotted Johnson jogging in Patterson Park, his big muscular frame and impressive cock bulge drawing the attention of the white women. On more than one occasion I saw those young moms and career girls just staring blatantly at him with lust in their eyes. He looked like he could play quarterback for the Ravens man, and the bastard was drop-dead handsome with it.
As I later learned, Johnson had spotted my wife in the park and decided that he wanted to fuck her. It didn’t take long before she opened her legs for him and became his bitch. Maybe he offered to help her with her stretches. Maybe he simply complimented her looks. Maybe he just brazenly walked up to her, like black men so often do to white women, and told her that she could do better than me, her husband. Maybe she took one look at his bare chest, flexing muscles and the outline of his big cock and her primal instincts just took over. Whatever happened, she must have fallen for that black stud big time and he saw an opportunity. He saw to it that I would be removed from her bed and her life while he converted her properly, while he made her his bitch.
Exactly when Estelle started fucking Johnson I’m not sure, but I suspect it was a few months before my arrest for theft. It hurts to say it, but I’m guessing that Johnson was the reason that Estelle lost all sexual interest in me that summer. She told me it was ”just a phase” she was going through – if fucking a black bull with no regard for your poor husband can be called a ”phase”.
Anyway, one Wednesday afternoon, midway through my shift I was told by Johnson to quit what I was doing and come to his plush private office where two police officers were waiting. They were kind at first, told me that there was a small matter they needed to clear up. There’d been a large number of thefts from hospital patients, they said, and they needed to eliminate me from my enquiries. Of course, I was happy to oblige, and agreed to let them check out my car and house to eliminate me from suspicion.
Looking back, it was probably one of Johnson’s buddies working at the hospital that was responsible for the thefts, or even Johnson himself. However there’s no way anyone could have planted that evidence without the help of my bitch wife. She must have been in on it from the start. She had the only spare set of keys for my car, where the stolen jewelry was found, and it’s only her who could have planted the purses and credit cards in our home.
However, at the time of my arrest, I was simply shell-shocked. I just couldn’t figure out what had happened. I trusted my wife implicitly, and couldn’t contemplate any reason she might have for framing me. Now I’m wiser, I know that the whore simply wanted me out of the house and was so besotted with Johnson that she would so anything he said. Come to think of it, she was probably taking his big black shaft in our bed while I was sweating in the precinct downtown on the day of my arrest.
I couldn’t even make bail man. Estelle would have needed to take out a second mortgage on the house to raise the required bond, but guess what – she spent months trying to arrange it while I spent months on remand downtown. When my court date came, and with no bail posted, I was sentenced to an eighteen-month stretch in Jessup, minus time served. For those of you who don’t know it, Jessop is one of the toughest penitentiaries in Maryland, and also happens to be over 80 percent black.
And that’s when my nightmare really began. They say slavery don’t exist anymore man, but I beg to differ. In the joint I was “owned” by an evil gang leader called T-Bone, who ordered me about and beat me for fun. I was his personal slave man, he had me wash his clothes, clean his cell, and address him as “Sir”. I tell ya, being a skinny middle class white boy in a prison ruled by black gangs from the street is the worst. The few white boys serving time are the lowest of the low, and I had the misfortune to be one of the prettier ones. From day one, man, I was subjected to vicious beatings, day after day. Enough to hurt me good man, but not enough to land me in hospital. After a week I was left in absolutely no doubt that I had to obey the ruling blacks – and jump to it – if I wanted to stay alive. I became their fetch-and-carry bitch, a servant to T-Bone and his black bully cohorts.
And where was my darling wife during this time? Where was Estelle, who had vowed to love and protect me? Well she cut all contact. I guess the bitch was too busy fucking Johnson in my bed, in our fucking home, to care about my suffering. The last time I saw her was in court, at my sentencing hearing. She’d blown me a kiss as I ‘d been led into custody. Despite my numerous letters, I hadn’t heard a word from her since.
Turns out the initial beatings were designed to make me completely subservient before T-Bone and his buddies decided to turn me into a sexual object for their sadistic pleasure. I was given women’s’ clothes to dress in, man, high heels and make-up to wear. Even a fucking blonde wig man, if you can believe it. It was totally degrading, something no man should ever experience.. I was forced to walk up and down the corridors of that hellhole shaking my ass for the brothers. I was forced to “walk like a bitch” and even “talk like a bitch” at all times. Of course plenty of the brothas had cell phones and filmed my humiliation before uploading it to certain sites on the internet. Some sick fuckers will pay good money to watch nonconsensual assaults on white boys, and not only men I hear.
They smuggled in real women at the weekends, hot bitches too, but not enough to meet the black convicts’ huge need for pussy. I tell ya, as one of the more attractive white boys I was in big demand. T-Bone would sell my services to anyone who could pay. Nothing was taboo, man, I was abused, caned, pissed on and made to debase myself and admit the superiority of blacks again and again. I was even forced to dance for them at a fucking strippers’ pole while they smoked weed and laughed. I was forced to suck their massive cocks, terrified that they would make good on their threat to smash all my teeth out if they felt anything but my gums on their massive shafts,
The wardens man, they were all black too and didn’t give a shit about my plight. I was a thief in their eyes, and to make it worse, a white privileged thief. It didn’t help that some of my supposed “victims” were elderly black ladies. The first time I complained, I was beaten to a pulp by the tough black wardens and told in no uncertain terms that I would have plenty of bones broken if I ever complained again. Even the female staff didn’t want to hear about my plight. I was on my own.
One afternoon towards the end of my sentence I was summoned to T-Bone’s cell, and I approached the big black man in trepidation. “Some papers for you to sign boy,” he said. “Get to it.”
I looked at the documents T-Bone passed to me and almost collapsed in shock. They concerned the handover of my house to my wife. My house, that I had saved for five years to buy, that cost near on half a million bucks, was to be signed over to Estelle. What the fuck was going on?
“Sign the fucking papers boy before I start breaking your fingers,” T-Bone said matter-of-factly. I knew from the tone of his voice that he was deadly serious.
I was trembling so hard I could hardly hold the pen as things finally started to fall into place. Grim realization was sweeping over me in waves. For the first time it started to dawn on me that my wife must have set me up for my fall. Why else would she not visit me and not respond to my letters? Why else would she abandon me? Of course. She must have been an accomplice in framing me. That bitch! She wanted my house, or at least its monetary value, and was somehow in league with these prison thugs. There could be no other explanation. Someone must have persuaded Estelle to frame me, simply to get me out of the way and steal my assets.
In shock, I dropped the pen, and was rewarded with a harsh bitch-slap to my cheek.
“I’m aint gonna tell ya agin white boy,” T-Bone said menacingly. “Sign the fucking papers bitch”.
Of course, I signed. What option did I have?
“Good boy” T-Bone said. “Now listen up. Yo white bitch wit ma bro Johnson now. She don’t want ya ass no more. She turned man, she turned. Bitch gone black. You good with that?”
I was stunned.
“You good with that boi?” he said again
“Yes sir” was all I could say
“Good, bitch gonna pay ya a visit one day soon, and ya betta be humble and show plenty of respect,” he said. “You disrespect her, you disrespect Johnson, and dat means ya disrespecting me, Dats da way it goes”
It was hell after that, man. Pure hell. I just couldn’t believe that my wife had played a big part in landing me here. How could any woman be so mercenary and cruel? To be honest I became suicidal. I saw my lawyer, this snooty bitch from Catonsville, and it was she who told me that my house was up for sale. She said that I was an idiot for signing the papers, like she had no fucking inkling of what went on in the pen. Like I had a choice. It drove me insane. The very thought of Johnson fucking Estelle, turning her into his bitch and spending my savings whilst I was banged up in this hellhole drove me crazy. Now he was stealing my very home and there was nothing I could do about it. If only I could speak to Estelle, part of me thought. If only I could reason with her. Surely if she knew of the indignities and pain I was suffering she would turn her back on him. But another part of me feared that she was fully aware of my plight and had chosen to do nothing
I finally received my parole hearing and was approved for release but the conditions were strict. I was to reside at my former address and report daily to the precinct. I also had to take a number of educational courses on how to respect the law, that kind of thing. Then, finally, not long before my scheduled release on parole, I got a visitor slip. Estelle was finally coming to see me! However, knowing what I knew, I viewed her visit with some trepidation.
The day before the visit two thugs entered my cell and dragged me into the prison yard, where I was thrown down into the mud and kicked and punched. “She a queen, she a princess” they yelled as they punched and kicked. “She Johnson’s bitch. You pay her the utmost respect. Agree with every fucking word she says, boy, and don’t be fucking insolent. You disrespect her, you disrespect the black man. She fucking royalty to you boy, you got that? All she need to do is say the word and you lose your fucking teeth. Remember that boy.”
The bitch slaps and punches continued.
'She aint your wife any more. Remember dat. She Johnson’s bitch. Show her humility. Remember boy, it’s your ass on the line”
They then showed me some pics on their phone as “proof” that Estelle and Johnson were an item. Sure enough, there my darling wife was with her arms draped round the massive black man, wearing a choker stating ”Property of J” and a T-shirt bearing the words “black man’s bitch”
The following day I was escorted to the visiting room, which was equipped with a sofa and chairs and a bed for conjugal visits.. The black men of the prison liked to call it the “breeding room,” and it’s a fair term I guess given the number of horny white bitches that have been bred there, There is also a discrete camera to film what goes on.
I heard the clap of Estelle’s heels as she strode down the corridor towards me. I heard her voice speaking to the warden. Then the door opened and in she strode. She looked magnificent and sexy as hell. She wore ridiculously tight jeans and red high heels, and a tight T shirt with a short business-style jacket covering her breasts. Her skin looked flushed and perfect, and she had on an expensive watch, necklace and bracelet. It was obvious from her expression that she knew how hot she looked. My average-sized cock immediately became hard.
“Hi John," she said. She sat down opposite me and crossed her legs.
“You look amazing Estelle” I said. “You look do really well.” I had a lump in my throat. She looked beautiful all right. The hottest I'd ever seen her in fact.
"Thanks John” she smiled. “I’ve been working out a lot”. She smiled again, like she was making some kind of in-joke.
“Listen John” Estelle said. "I’ve been seeing someone. It’s Johnson, the black man from your work. You know him?”
I simply nodded, struck dumb by her beauty and her words.
“And well, we decided, you getting out of jail isn’t going to change anything. We plan to carry on seeing each other”
I felt like I had been hit by a thunderbolt, but had to contain my shock
“I guess that’s OK Estelle” I said. It fucking wasn't of course but I was conscious of my instructions to act humble before her.
“I guess I haven’t been much of a husband to you these past few months,” I said.
“You’re right” she said. “Johnson’s been helping with the mortgage payments. I don’t know how I’d have managed otherwise. He’s so sweet”
“I really want to be with him” she said. “And with you been caught stealing and all, well, I thought it best to make a clean break, a fresh start. So that’s why I decided to sell the house. Thanks for signing the papers by the way. I’ve found a buyer, and we’re exchanging contracts next week””
Did she have any inkling I wondered, of why I didn’t object to signing those fucking papers? Maybe deep down she knew all about the physical violence but preferred not to think about it.
Then another terrible thought struck me. As a condition of my probation, I was supposed to live at our home, the house she was selling. If I couldn’t live there, I wouldn’t be allowed out of jail. It could take months to get another address to be approved by the probation board. Another hearing would be required. The house sale simply couldn’t happen. I started to panic.
“Estelle, please, can I just say something…” I began. “I know you must always come first but please, can I ask you a huge favor. As a condition of my probation, I need to live at our address. It’s only for three months, but if I can’t live there, they won’t let me out of here on my release date.”
She stared at me
“Please Estelle” I said. “I can’t stay in this place any longer.”
“But we need the money now” she said. Not I I noted but we. “Johnson has some business investments he needs to take care of”
“Anyway, you seem to be managing okay in here so far,” Estelle said. Like she hadn't noticed my bruised face and broken nose.
“Please Estelle, where will I live when I do get out? Please, for the love of God, have a heart baby. Please!”
She seemed to consider the question for a moment.
“I know John” she said. “Why not sleep in a metro station. Plenty of homeless bums do that.”
There was another long silence as I tried to grasp what she was saying. I just couldn’t comprehend how cruel my sexy wife was being.
“You could find food in the trash cans John” she said.
I was in a state of shock at her callous words. Was the bitch really suggesting I live on the street? Was she really going to leave me here and sell our home? I couldn’t help it, I started sobbing, bawling my eyes out.
“Pleas Estelle” I sobbed. Please. Please, Please”
I must have looked like a real sniveling bitch in her eyes as I just broke down in front of her hot, gorgeous gaze.
Please Estelle, please for the love of God” I sobbed. “I can’t take it in here anymore. I’ve got to get out. Please. Pleeease”
To my shame I actually got down on my knees and started begging in front of her, groveling in front of her dainty feet encased in those hot red shoes. “I’ll do anything, anything” I sobbed. “Please Estelle. Just keep hold of the house for three more months. Pleease”.
My tears started to drip onto her hot red stilettos as she stared down at me, breathing heavily but staying silent. I then started to kiss the tips of her shoes again and again, and wrapped her feet in my arms.
A black warden looked through the hatch in the door. “Are you okay ma’am?” he said
“Yes, we’re just about finished I think” Estelle said and stood up briskly.
“Nooooooooooooooo!!!” I cried. “Babe don’t do this. Pleease!!”
“Oh by the way John, you should know that I’m pregnant.” Estelle said as she spun on her heels. “I’m going to have Johnson’s babies. I need a bigger place to raise his babies. That’s why the house needs to be sold as soon as possible”
“He says he’s going to give me three babies in three years” Estelle said. “We need the space. Can’t you understand John?”
Then she strolled out. The door slammed and I was left alone. After a few minutes staring blankly at the wall I started to scream.
Guess what. I actually did get out of the slammer shortly afterwards. And landed up where? Fucking John Hopkins, that’s where, On the secure psychiatric wing no less, after a brief spell in the emergency room. I’d been severely beaten yet again for “making a scene and crying like a bitch” in front of my hot wife. I guess I was transferred to John Hopkins before I was killed or committed suicide in the pen. While they enjoyed watching the beatings and humiliation, the wardens didn’t want another dead white boy on their hands.
When I was finally discharged from the hospital it was pouring with rain, I was broke and had nowhere to go. My house had been sold, and Estelle and Johnson had moved out to the ‘burbs. I had no idea where. Believe it or not I ended up doing exactly as my wife had suggested that night and bedding down at the entrance to Shot Tower metro station. My only sustenance that day was a discarded Taco Bell meal that someone had thrown in the trash.
If you ever happen to be in Charm City and need your wheels cleaned, chances are you might spot me. I’m still on probation, and working my ass off. I'm the white guy with the downtrodden, broken look who works at the black-owned carwash on East Pratt, slaving for a minimum wage plus tips. I’m always polite and servile to the black motorists who pull up for a shine. Oh, I’m fully educated these days all right.
My name’s John, by the way, and, my time in the big house educated me all right. It educated me to appreciate that life just ain’t fucking fair, man. The things that go down, they just ain't right. It’s fucking obscene what those prison gangs can get away with. My time in the pen certainly educated me. It taught me to always show respect to big black thugs and their bitches. It taught me that some people are outside the law, and they can do just what they darn well please.
Before I was sentenced to time in Jessop I had a wife, a job and a social circle. When I came out I had none of that, nothing at all. I’d been kicked, punched, humiliated and even fucking ass-***** by the cruel black men who ruled the joint with an iron fist. Being an ex con, I had no way to earn a decent living once released, and was spurned by my former friends. Now I have to slave away at a minimum wage job that I can’t quit or I’ll be breaking my probation terms. Oh, and while I was inside I learned something else. I learned that my wife had ditched my ass for the evil black man who put me inside. My spell in the big house educated me all right, that’s for sure.
Looking back, life had been pretty good until my arrest. I was aged 35 and had just bought a smart row house facing the park after saving about a third of my salary each month over five years. I worked at John Hopkins as a lab technician, and had met my pretty wife Estelle on an online dating site. She was a HR administrator downtown, a busty redhead with a sexy southern drawl, lots of attitude and plenty of curves. She was divorced with a bitter ex husband in Towson who hated her, she said. Her online profile said that she was “looking to better herself”, and I guess you could say the bitch did just that.
I reckon marrying me was a good deal for Estelle, at the time at least. She’d been commuting in from Ellicott City in a gas-guzzling Ford, and I guess the prospect of a free place to stay a mile from downtown and a joint bank account made the bitch’s mind up. I’d fallen for her big time, despite her being ten years younger, and dated her for a year before she agreed to be my bride. I think now that the house purchase was the clincher. Just weeks after I bought my dream home, she accepted my proposition of marriage and moved in.
I’d better tell you straight that Baltimore is still a pretty segregated town, and the area that we lived, close to John Hopkins, was right on the dividing line. It was nice where we were man, but just three or four short blocks away and you could have been in an episode of the fucking Wire. The melting pot was Patterson Park, right on our doorstep, where you’d see those big black studs with their muscles, bling and vests mingling and coming on to the white girls, including our pretty wives and girlfriends. I’m telling you man, even if the local white women were out with their kids or even their husbands it didn’t stop the come-ons and suggestive comments. Estelle used to jog in the park, and I admit it made me somewhat uneasy. I tried jogging with her a couple of times but couldn’t keep up the pace. Eventually she got sick of waiting for me and just sped up and ran alone.
Like I said, life was good but one thing continued to rile me. The head of security at John Hopkins was a coffee-skinned black man called Johnson who seemed to have taken a dislike to me. Johnson was a mean sonofabitch who barked orders at me like he was my superior, which technically he was. He would give me stern reprimands for parking my car in the wrong spot or using the wrong entrance to the hospital. It was like he ruled the place man, even the doctors were scared of him. He was always coming on to the women who visited the patients too, always ready with a suggestive remark and a broad smile. I know for a fact he fucked more than one of them in his office. I heard the noises.
From our bedroom window, I often spotted Johnson jogging in Patterson Park, his big muscular frame and impressive cock bulge drawing the attention of the white women. On more than one occasion I saw those young moms and career girls just staring blatantly at him with lust in their eyes. He looked like he could play quarterback for the Ravens man, and the bastard was drop-dead handsome with it.
As I later learned, Johnson had spotted my wife in the park and decided that he wanted to fuck her. It didn’t take long before she opened her legs for him and became his bitch. Maybe he offered to help her with her stretches. Maybe he simply complimented her looks. Maybe he just brazenly walked up to her, like black men so often do to white women, and told her that she could do better than me, her husband. Maybe she took one look at his bare chest, flexing muscles and the outline of his big cock and her primal instincts just took over. Whatever happened, she must have fallen for that black stud big time and he saw an opportunity. He saw to it that I would be removed from her bed and her life while he converted her properly, while he made her his bitch.
Exactly when Estelle started fucking Johnson I’m not sure, but I suspect it was a few months before my arrest for theft. It hurts to say it, but I’m guessing that Johnson was the reason that Estelle lost all sexual interest in me that summer. She told me it was ”just a phase” she was going through – if fucking a black bull with no regard for your poor husband can be called a ”phase”.
Anyway, one Wednesday afternoon, midway through my shift I was told by Johnson to quit what I was doing and come to his plush private office where two police officers were waiting. They were kind at first, told me that there was a small matter they needed to clear up. There’d been a large number of thefts from hospital patients, they said, and they needed to eliminate me from my enquiries. Of course, I was happy to oblige, and agreed to let them check out my car and house to eliminate me from suspicion.
Looking back, it was probably one of Johnson’s buddies working at the hospital that was responsible for the thefts, or even Johnson himself. However there’s no way anyone could have planted that evidence without the help of my bitch wife. She must have been in on it from the start. She had the only spare set of keys for my car, where the stolen jewelry was found, and it’s only her who could have planted the purses and credit cards in our home.
However, at the time of my arrest, I was simply shell-shocked. I just couldn’t figure out what had happened. I trusted my wife implicitly, and couldn’t contemplate any reason she might have for framing me. Now I’m wiser, I know that the whore simply wanted me out of the house and was so besotted with Johnson that she would so anything he said. Come to think of it, she was probably taking his big black shaft in our bed while I was sweating in the precinct downtown on the day of my arrest.
I couldn’t even make bail man. Estelle would have needed to take out a second mortgage on the house to raise the required bond, but guess what – she spent months trying to arrange it while I spent months on remand downtown. When my court date came, and with no bail posted, I was sentenced to an eighteen-month stretch in Jessup, minus time served. For those of you who don’t know it, Jessop is one of the toughest penitentiaries in Maryland, and also happens to be over 80 percent black.
And that’s when my nightmare really began. They say slavery don’t exist anymore man, but I beg to differ. In the joint I was “owned” by an evil gang leader called T-Bone, who ordered me about and beat me for fun. I was his personal slave man, he had me wash his clothes, clean his cell, and address him as “Sir”. I tell ya, being a skinny middle class white boy in a prison ruled by black gangs from the street is the worst. The few white boys serving time are the lowest of the low, and I had the misfortune to be one of the prettier ones. From day one, man, I was subjected to vicious beatings, day after day. Enough to hurt me good man, but not enough to land me in hospital. After a week I was left in absolutely no doubt that I had to obey the ruling blacks – and jump to it – if I wanted to stay alive. I became their fetch-and-carry bitch, a servant to T-Bone and his black bully cohorts.
And where was my darling wife during this time? Where was Estelle, who had vowed to love and protect me? Well she cut all contact. I guess the bitch was too busy fucking Johnson in my bed, in our fucking home, to care about my suffering. The last time I saw her was in court, at my sentencing hearing. She’d blown me a kiss as I ‘d been led into custody. Despite my numerous letters, I hadn’t heard a word from her since.
Turns out the initial beatings were designed to make me completely subservient before T-Bone and his buddies decided to turn me into a sexual object for their sadistic pleasure. I was given women’s’ clothes to dress in, man, high heels and make-up to wear. Even a fucking blonde wig man, if you can believe it. It was totally degrading, something no man should ever experience.. I was forced to walk up and down the corridors of that hellhole shaking my ass for the brothers. I was forced to “walk like a bitch” and even “talk like a bitch” at all times. Of course plenty of the brothas had cell phones and filmed my humiliation before uploading it to certain sites on the internet. Some sick fuckers will pay good money to watch nonconsensual assaults on white boys, and not only men I hear.
They smuggled in real women at the weekends, hot bitches too, but not enough to meet the black convicts’ huge need for pussy. I tell ya, as one of the more attractive white boys I was in big demand. T-Bone would sell my services to anyone who could pay. Nothing was taboo, man, I was abused, caned, pissed on and made to debase myself and admit the superiority of blacks again and again. I was even forced to dance for them at a fucking strippers’ pole while they smoked weed and laughed. I was forced to suck their massive cocks, terrified that they would make good on their threat to smash all my teeth out if they felt anything but my gums on their massive shafts,
The wardens man, they were all black too and didn’t give a shit about my plight. I was a thief in their eyes, and to make it worse, a white privileged thief. It didn’t help that some of my supposed “victims” were elderly black ladies. The first time I complained, I was beaten to a pulp by the tough black wardens and told in no uncertain terms that I would have plenty of bones broken if I ever complained again. Even the female staff didn’t want to hear about my plight. I was on my own.
One afternoon towards the end of my sentence I was summoned to T-Bone’s cell, and I approached the big black man in trepidation. “Some papers for you to sign boy,” he said. “Get to it.”
I looked at the documents T-Bone passed to me and almost collapsed in shock. They concerned the handover of my house to my wife. My house, that I had saved for five years to buy, that cost near on half a million bucks, was to be signed over to Estelle. What the fuck was going on?
“Sign the fucking papers boy before I start breaking your fingers,” T-Bone said matter-of-factly. I knew from the tone of his voice that he was deadly serious.
I was trembling so hard I could hardly hold the pen as things finally started to fall into place. Grim realization was sweeping over me in waves. For the first time it started to dawn on me that my wife must have set me up for my fall. Why else would she not visit me and not respond to my letters? Why else would she abandon me? Of course. She must have been an accomplice in framing me. That bitch! She wanted my house, or at least its monetary value, and was somehow in league with these prison thugs. There could be no other explanation. Someone must have persuaded Estelle to frame me, simply to get me out of the way and steal my assets.
In shock, I dropped the pen, and was rewarded with a harsh bitch-slap to my cheek.
“I’m aint gonna tell ya agin white boy,” T-Bone said menacingly. “Sign the fucking papers bitch”.
Of course, I signed. What option did I have?
“Good boy” T-Bone said. “Now listen up. Yo white bitch wit ma bro Johnson now. She don’t want ya ass no more. She turned man, she turned. Bitch gone black. You good with that?”
I was stunned.
“You good with that boi?” he said again
“Yes sir” was all I could say
“Good, bitch gonna pay ya a visit one day soon, and ya betta be humble and show plenty of respect,” he said. “You disrespect her, you disrespect Johnson, and dat means ya disrespecting me, Dats da way it goes”
It was hell after that, man. Pure hell. I just couldn’t believe that my wife had played a big part in landing me here. How could any woman be so mercenary and cruel? To be honest I became suicidal. I saw my lawyer, this snooty bitch from Catonsville, and it was she who told me that my house was up for sale. She said that I was an idiot for signing the papers, like she had no fucking inkling of what went on in the pen. Like I had a choice. It drove me insane. The very thought of Johnson fucking Estelle, turning her into his bitch and spending my savings whilst I was banged up in this hellhole drove me crazy. Now he was stealing my very home and there was nothing I could do about it. If only I could speak to Estelle, part of me thought. If only I could reason with her. Surely if she knew of the indignities and pain I was suffering she would turn her back on him. But another part of me feared that she was fully aware of my plight and had chosen to do nothing
I finally received my parole hearing and was approved for release but the conditions were strict. I was to reside at my former address and report daily to the precinct. I also had to take a number of educational courses on how to respect the law, that kind of thing. Then, finally, not long before my scheduled release on parole, I got a visitor slip. Estelle was finally coming to see me! However, knowing what I knew, I viewed her visit with some trepidation.
The day before the visit two thugs entered my cell and dragged me into the prison yard, where I was thrown down into the mud and kicked and punched. “She a queen, she a princess” they yelled as they punched and kicked. “She Johnson’s bitch. You pay her the utmost respect. Agree with every fucking word she says, boy, and don’t be fucking insolent. You disrespect her, you disrespect the black man. She fucking royalty to you boy, you got that? All she need to do is say the word and you lose your fucking teeth. Remember that boy.”
The bitch slaps and punches continued.
'She aint your wife any more. Remember dat. She Johnson’s bitch. Show her humility. Remember boy, it’s your ass on the line”
They then showed me some pics on their phone as “proof” that Estelle and Johnson were an item. Sure enough, there my darling wife was with her arms draped round the massive black man, wearing a choker stating ”Property of J” and a T-shirt bearing the words “black man’s bitch”
The following day I was escorted to the visiting room, which was equipped with a sofa and chairs and a bed for conjugal visits.. The black men of the prison liked to call it the “breeding room,” and it’s a fair term I guess given the number of horny white bitches that have been bred there, There is also a discrete camera to film what goes on.
I heard the clap of Estelle’s heels as she strode down the corridor towards me. I heard her voice speaking to the warden. Then the door opened and in she strode. She looked magnificent and sexy as hell. She wore ridiculously tight jeans and red high heels, and a tight T shirt with a short business-style jacket covering her breasts. Her skin looked flushed and perfect, and she had on an expensive watch, necklace and bracelet. It was obvious from her expression that she knew how hot she looked. My average-sized cock immediately became hard.
“Hi John," she said. She sat down opposite me and crossed her legs.
“You look amazing Estelle” I said. “You look do really well.” I had a lump in my throat. She looked beautiful all right. The hottest I'd ever seen her in fact.
"Thanks John” she smiled. “I’ve been working out a lot”. She smiled again, like she was making some kind of in-joke.
“Listen John” Estelle said. "I’ve been seeing someone. It’s Johnson, the black man from your work. You know him?”
I simply nodded, struck dumb by her beauty and her words.
“And well, we decided, you getting out of jail isn’t going to change anything. We plan to carry on seeing each other”
I felt like I had been hit by a thunderbolt, but had to contain my shock
“I guess that’s OK Estelle” I said. It fucking wasn't of course but I was conscious of my instructions to act humble before her.
“I guess I haven’t been much of a husband to you these past few months,” I said.
“You’re right” she said. “Johnson’s been helping with the mortgage payments. I don’t know how I’d have managed otherwise. He’s so sweet”
“I really want to be with him” she said. “And with you been caught stealing and all, well, I thought it best to make a clean break, a fresh start. So that’s why I decided to sell the house. Thanks for signing the papers by the way. I’ve found a buyer, and we’re exchanging contracts next week””
Did she have any inkling I wondered, of why I didn’t object to signing those fucking papers? Maybe deep down she knew all about the physical violence but preferred not to think about it.
Then another terrible thought struck me. As a condition of my probation, I was supposed to live at our home, the house she was selling. If I couldn’t live there, I wouldn’t be allowed out of jail. It could take months to get another address to be approved by the probation board. Another hearing would be required. The house sale simply couldn’t happen. I started to panic.
“Estelle, please, can I just say something…” I began. “I know you must always come first but please, can I ask you a huge favor. As a condition of my probation, I need to live at our address. It’s only for three months, but if I can’t live there, they won’t let me out of here on my release date.”
She stared at me
“Please Estelle” I said. “I can’t stay in this place any longer.”
“But we need the money now” she said. Not I I noted but we. “Johnson has some business investments he needs to take care of”
“Anyway, you seem to be managing okay in here so far,” Estelle said. Like she hadn't noticed my bruised face and broken nose.
“Please Estelle, where will I live when I do get out? Please, for the love of God, have a heart baby. Please!”
She seemed to consider the question for a moment.
“I know John” she said. “Why not sleep in a metro station. Plenty of homeless bums do that.”
There was another long silence as I tried to grasp what she was saying. I just couldn’t comprehend how cruel my sexy wife was being.
“You could find food in the trash cans John” she said.
I was in a state of shock at her callous words. Was the bitch really suggesting I live on the street? Was she really going to leave me here and sell our home? I couldn’t help it, I started sobbing, bawling my eyes out.
“Pleas Estelle” I sobbed. Please. Please, Please”
I must have looked like a real sniveling bitch in her eyes as I just broke down in front of her hot, gorgeous gaze.
Please Estelle, please for the love of God” I sobbed. “I can’t take it in here anymore. I’ve got to get out. Please. Pleeease”
To my shame I actually got down on my knees and started begging in front of her, groveling in front of her dainty feet encased in those hot red shoes. “I’ll do anything, anything” I sobbed. “Please Estelle. Just keep hold of the house for three more months. Pleease”.
My tears started to drip onto her hot red stilettos as she stared down at me, breathing heavily but staying silent. I then started to kiss the tips of her shoes again and again, and wrapped her feet in my arms.
A black warden looked through the hatch in the door. “Are you okay ma’am?” he said
“Yes, we’re just about finished I think” Estelle said and stood up briskly.
“Nooooooooooooooo!!!” I cried. “Babe don’t do this. Pleease!!”
“Oh by the way John, you should know that I’m pregnant.” Estelle said as she spun on her heels. “I’m going to have Johnson’s babies. I need a bigger place to raise his babies. That’s why the house needs to be sold as soon as possible”
“He says he’s going to give me three babies in three years” Estelle said. “We need the space. Can’t you understand John?”
Then she strolled out. The door slammed and I was left alone. After a few minutes staring blankly at the wall I started to scream.
Guess what. I actually did get out of the slammer shortly afterwards. And landed up where? Fucking John Hopkins, that’s where, On the secure psychiatric wing no less, after a brief spell in the emergency room. I’d been severely beaten yet again for “making a scene and crying like a bitch” in front of my hot wife. I guess I was transferred to John Hopkins before I was killed or committed suicide in the pen. While they enjoyed watching the beatings and humiliation, the wardens didn’t want another dead white boy on their hands.
When I was finally discharged from the hospital it was pouring with rain, I was broke and had nowhere to go. My house had been sold, and Estelle and Johnson had moved out to the ‘burbs. I had no idea where. Believe it or not I ended up doing exactly as my wife had suggested that night and bedding down at the entrance to Shot Tower metro station. My only sustenance that day was a discarded Taco Bell meal that someone had thrown in the trash.
If you ever happen to be in Charm City and need your wheels cleaned, chances are you might spot me. I’m still on probation, and working my ass off. I'm the white guy with the downtrodden, broken look who works at the black-owned carwash on East Pratt, slaving for a minimum wage plus tips. I’m always polite and servile to the black motorists who pull up for a shine. Oh, I’m fully educated these days all right.
