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Speaker 1: The buzz of the fluorescent lights had become a permanent

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hum inside my skull. A toenightis of institution. Three weeks

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into the job, and I'd learned that maximum security wasn't

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just about the locks. It was about the air, thick, recycled,

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smelling of bleach and something else, something muskier. The block

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stretched ahead of me, a concrete colonnade of bad decisions.

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My boots echoed. I like that sound, it announced me

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before my uniform did. The crisp navy fabric pulling just

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a little across my shoulders with every step. The baton

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hung heavy on my belt, a pendulum of state sanctioned authority.

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Cell sixty seven empty, Cell sixty eight, A man curled

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on his bunk, facing the wall. I tapped the baton

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once against the metal door frame. No response. Good, Then

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came sixty nine, even an officer. The voice was a

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gravel road, white, old, chewed up by decades of cheap

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cigarettes and cheaper whiskey. I stopped because protocol said I

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had to, but also because something in that voice hooked

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me a splinter under the skin. Two men, the old

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white one sat on the lower bunk, elbows on knees,

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a gray flecked beard cascading down his chest. Tattoos faded

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to blue green ghosts on his forearms. Above him, the

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young black man lounged with the liquid indolence of a

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jungle cat, one leg dangling over the edge, dreads spilling

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into the gap between the bunks. Quiet tonight, isn't it,

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I said, words of stone professional. The young one smiled,

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hot to sweat dripping everywhere. Even pigs sweat, right, Marcus, Marcus,

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The old one didn't smile. He studied me the way

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a butcher studies a carcass, assessing cuts. Oh, they sweat, Tyrell,

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They sweat like any other animal. And this one, he inhaled, deeply, audibly,

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and the sound of it should have disgusted me. This

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one's been sweating all shift. I can smell it. My

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grip tightened on the baton, but I didn't move. What's

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your name, Officer Terrell asked, the question, landing somewhere between

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a request and a command, so we know what to

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call you when we're thinking about you later. You don't

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need my name, Oh, but we do gotta have a

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name to put on the pig roast. Marcus's tongue traced

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his lower lip. Me and Tyrell, we like to roast

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pig sluts, Get them all greasy, spread them open on

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a spit. You know what a spit is, Officer? Two

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meat sticks turnin' you slow? The fluorescent lights hummed louder,

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or maybe that was my blood. The words were filth, crude, degrading, filth.

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Nothing I hadn't heard screamed through these corridors before. But

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the way Marcus said meat sticks, the way Torell's eyes

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traveled from my face down to my belt and stayed there.

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Set something buzzing behind my sternum. Watch your mouth, inmate,

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she's blushing, Torell observed, almost tenderly beneath all that pig pink.

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She's Blushin'. You've been a bad girl your whole life, officer,

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Or did you take this job hoping to find something?

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I walked on. I had to. The protocol demanded it,

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and some frayed part of my own sanity insisted upon it.

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My boots echoed down the block, but their laughter followed

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me twin threads of smoke wrapping around my throat. Three

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nights later, the heat broke. Records the cooling system had

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failed on Block C, and the air sat motionless, pregnant

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with the collective exhalations of a hundred men. I'd unbuttoned

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the top collar of my uniform, one button, a minor transgression,

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but sweat still beaded along my hair line, tracked down

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my spine, pooled in the small of my back. Cell

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sixty nine. There she Isterrell's voice, honey over gravel, sweaty

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pig tonight, Marcus added, wet pig. You know what we

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do with wet pigs, Officer. I could have walked. I

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should have walked. Instead, my feet planted themselves on the

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concrete like they'd grown roots. Tell me. The words left

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my mouth before my brain could intercept them. Marcus rose

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from the bunk, slow, like an old engine rumbling to life.

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He approached the bars, his face half shadow. We eat em, officer,

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Start at the back where the meat is sweetest. That

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sweaty pig asshole, Tyrrell and I we'd lick it clean together,

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two tongues, no waiting. My throat constricted. Something wet and

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traitorous bloomed between my thighs. You think that's filthy, Tyrrell said,

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dropping from the top. Bunk without a sound. His body

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is study in controlled motion. But your hands shaken on

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that baton. He was right. I looked down at my

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knuckles white where they gripped the truncheon. When I looked

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up again, something had shifted. Some essential fulcrumb inside me

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had tipped. And the woman who followed protocol, who tapped

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doors and walked on, she was gone. In her place

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stood someone who had been called a pig slut, and

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discovered with vertiginous clarity that she wanted to roll in

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the mud. The key slid into the lock with a

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click that echoed like a gunshot strip search. I said,

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both of you face the wall. Their grins should have

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warned me. But as I closed the cell door behind me,

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sealing us together in that concrete box, I realized those

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grins were not triumph. They were hunger. The cell smelled

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of sweat and powdered bleach. Marcus and Tyrrell faced the wall,

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hand spread legs apart, perfect inmates, suddenly obedient. The contrast

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made my pulse jump. My baton tapped Marcus first. I

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ran it down his back, tracing the knobs of his

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spine through his orange jumpsuit. Then lower, Pressing into the

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cleft of his ass. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath.

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You're awfully quiet now, I murmured, waitin' on you, officer.

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The baton circled around to his front, trailing across his hip,

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and then I felt it, the hard ridge beneath the fabric.

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He was already rigid, straining against the prison issue cotton

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tyrol two. I checked, running the smooth black length of

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the truncheon along his inner thigh until I found the confirmation.

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I needed both of you, hard as night sticks. The

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laugh that escaped me was not a laugh I recognized,

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and they called me the pig. I holstered the baton.

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My uniform trousers fell to my ankles with a whisper

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of nylon, and my my underwear followed a wet string

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of arousal, stretching briefly before breaking. I bent over the

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lower bunk, gripping the metal frame, presenting myself. The position

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was obscene, degrading, exactly what I wanted eat. I said,

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clean your pigs hole, and don't stop until I say so.

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The first tongue was Marcus's broad, flat, the beard scratching

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my inner cheeks. He started at the base of my

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spine and worked downward in slow, worshipful strokes. Then Tyrol

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joined his tongue sharper more pointed probing, where Marcus soothed

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two mouths, one purpose. Oh fuck, the curse ripped from

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me unbidden. My forehead pressed against the cool metal of

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the bunk, a counterpoint to the wet inferno behind me.

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They lapped and probed and cleaned there a rough cheek

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scraping my sensitive skin. Tyrol's tongue circled my rim with

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a precision that suggested practice, while Marcus's broad licks painted

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my folds from behind, nose buried in the heat of

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me filthy prison scum, I gasped, and the words felt

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like velvet in my mouth, lapping at a pig's ass

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like dogs. Yes, officer, Marcus, groaned into my flesh. You

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love this, don't you? Eating dirty pig, cunt and whole.

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Tyarril's laugh vibrated against my tailbone. Ask us something harder, Officer.

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I let them feast. Minutes blurred, the world distilled to

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the slick sounds behind me, the scratch of beards, the

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obscene dedication of two tongues, cleaning every drop of sweat

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from my most intimate places. When I finally pulled away,

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spinning to face them, their chins glte listened with my

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musk on your knees, both of you. They dropped, their cocks,

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jutted from their open jumpsuits. Marcuses pale and thick, veined

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like old wood, Tyrrells darker, longer, curving slightly upward from

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a nest of trimmed hair. A thread of precumb stretched

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from the tip of Tyrrell's to the slit of Marcus's,

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glinting in the fluorescent light. I bent forward and severed

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it with my tongue, then dragged my mouth from one

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cock to the other, leaving a shining trail of saliva.

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The taste was salt and skin, and the faint chemical

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tang of prison soap. My mouth found Marcus, first, taking

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him deep, my nose pressing into the gray curls at

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his base. Then Tyrell, whose length I couldn't fully manage,

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my hand wrapping around what my throat couldn't accommodate. I

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moved between them, a pendulum of greed, my spit connecting

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us like a web. Beneath them, I rolled their balls

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over my tongue. Marcus is heavy and loose, Terrell's tighter, firmer,

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then further, tilting their hips, exposing them. My tongue traced

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each man's hole, and the sounds they made, broken whimpers,

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bitten off curses were worth more than any pension this

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job would ever pay. On the bunk, I ordered, pointing

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at Marcus, on your back. He scrambled to obey. I

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mounted him, reverse my back to his chest, sinking down

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onto his thickness with a grunt that was half pain,

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half prayer. He filled me, stretched me, and still I

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leaned forward until I was on all fours above him. Tyrrell,

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he didn't need more Behind me. The head of his

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cock pressed against the same entrance Marcus already occupied. Impossible,

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no inevitable. I pushed back against both of them, and

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the ring of muscle surrendered two cocks in one cunt.

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The sensation bordered on revelation, a fullness that was almost spiritual,

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if sacrilege counted. They moved, Marcus thrusting up, Tyrrel driving down,

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and their pubic bones found a rhythm slap slap. Their

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balls met beneath me with each stroke, a wet percussion.

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Pull my hair, I demanded, and Tyril's fist wound into

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my bun, wrenching my head back. Marcus's mouth latched onto

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my breast, the one he could reach, sucking hard enough

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to bruise. Teeth grazed my neck. Fingers dug into my hips.

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Pigs slut Tyrol grunted, his accent, slipping into something more guttural,

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dirty convict felth. I spat back, the words splintering as

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they pounded me from both directions. Come in your pig,

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fill her up. The request, permission, command broke whatever restraint remained.

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Marcus's hips stuttered, first, a guttural roar, tearing from his

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chest as his cock pulsed inside me, flooding my channel

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with heat. The sensation triggered Tyrrell, who drove deep and

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held his release a series of violent spurts that mingled

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with marcuses dripping down my thighs in thick ropey strands.

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Three bodies collapsed into a heap of trembling limbs. The

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bunk creaked under our combined weight. I could smell myself

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on them, their beards, their chests, their softening cocks. They

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were slick with me coated in the evidence of my corruption.

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I dressed in silence. Every movement ached a pleasant, sacred ache.

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Same time tomorrow, Marcus croaked from the bunk, eyes half litted,

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chest still heaving. I smoothed my uniform, tucked the sweaty

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strands of hair back into their bun, and retrieved my baton.

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At the cell door, I paused, not turning around. If

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you're lucky. The next evening, I didn't walk the block alone.

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Officer Hartly flanked my left, her buzz cut and no

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nonsense jaw, making her look like a marine recruitment poster.

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Officer Vasquez flanked my right, shorter but built like a

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pit bull, with a grin that suggested she'd enjoy a

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good ryot Sell sixty nine, I said, twirling my baton

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special inspection. Hartly raised an eyebrow. Vasquez chuckled low. We

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stopped in of the bars. Marcus and Tyrell stirred from

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their bunks. The exhaustion from last night still etched into

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their posture. When they saw my companions, something flickered in

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their eyes, surprise, fear, anticipation. I smiled, the slow, predatory

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smile I'd been practicing in the locker room mirror. Time

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to eat more pig ass you scum. I unlocked the

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door and tonight there's a whole litter. I hoped you

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enjoyed today's sexy story. If you love this podcast, leave

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an Apple review. Share what sexy fantasies you want to hear.

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Maybe we can make your dirty dreams come true. See

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you soon.