Speaker 1: The buzz of the fluorescent lights had become a permanent
hum inside my skull. A toenightis of institution. Three weeks
into the job, and I'd learned that maximum security wasn't
just about the locks. It was about the air, thick, recycled,
smelling of bleach and something else, something muskier. The block
stretched ahead of me, a concrete colonnade of bad decisions.
My boots echoed. I like that sound, it announced me
before my uniform did. The crisp navy fabric pulling just
a little across my shoulders with every step. The baton
hung heavy on my belt, a pendulum of state sanctioned authority.
Cell sixty seven empty, Cell sixty eight, A man curled
on his bunk, facing the wall. I tapped the baton
once against the metal door frame. No response. Good, Then
came sixty nine, even an officer. The voice was a
gravel road, white, old, chewed up by decades of cheap
cigarettes and cheaper whiskey. I stopped because protocol said I
had to, but also because something in that voice hooked
me a splinter under the skin. Two men, the old
white one sat on the lower bunk, elbows on knees,
a gray flecked beard cascading down his chest. Tattoos faded
to blue green ghosts on his forearms. Above him, the
young black man lounged with the liquid indolence of a
jungle cat, one leg dangling over the edge, dreads spilling
into the gap between the bunks. Quiet tonight, isn't it,
I said, words of stone professional. The young one smiled,
hot to sweat dripping everywhere. Even pigs sweat, right, Marcus, Marcus,
The old one didn't smile. He studied me the way
a butcher studies a carcass, assessing cuts. Oh, they sweat, Tyrell,
They sweat like any other animal. And this one, he inhaled, deeply, audibly,
and the sound of it should have disgusted me. This
one's been sweating all shift. I can smell it. My
grip tightened on the baton, but I didn't move. What's
your name, Officer Terrell asked, the question, landing somewhere between
a request and a command, so we know what to
call you when we're thinking about you later. You don't
need my name, Oh, but we do gotta have a
name to put on the pig roast. Marcus's tongue traced
his lower lip. Me and Tyrell, we like to roast
pig sluts, Get them all greasy, spread them open on
a spit. You know what a spit is, Officer? Two
meat sticks turnin' you slow? The fluorescent lights hummed louder,
or maybe that was my blood. The words were filth, crude, degrading, filth.
Nothing I hadn't heard screamed through these corridors before. But
the way Marcus said meat sticks, the way Torell's eyes
traveled from my face down to my belt and stayed there.
Set something buzzing behind my sternum. Watch your mouth, inmate,
she's blushing, Torell observed, almost tenderly beneath all that pig pink.
She's Blushin'. You've been a bad girl your whole life, officer,
Or did you take this job hoping to find something?
I walked on. I had to. The protocol demanded it,
and some frayed part of my own sanity insisted upon it.
My boots echoed down the block, but their laughter followed
me twin threads of smoke wrapping around my throat. Three
nights later, the heat broke. Records the cooling system had
failed on Block C, and the air sat motionless, pregnant
with the collective exhalations of a hundred men. I'd unbuttoned
the top collar of my uniform, one button, a minor transgression,
but sweat still beaded along my hair line, tracked down
my spine, pooled in the small of my back. Cell
sixty nine. There she Isterrell's voice, honey over gravel, sweaty
pig tonight, Marcus added, wet pig. You know what we
do with wet pigs, Officer. I could have walked. I
should have walked. Instead, my feet planted themselves on the
concrete like they'd grown roots. Tell me. The words left
my mouth before my brain could intercept them. Marcus rose
from the bunk, slow, like an old engine rumbling to life.
He approached the bars, his face half shadow. We eat em, officer,
Start at the back where the meat is sweetest. That
sweaty pig asshole, Tyrrell and I we'd lick it clean together,
two tongues, no waiting. My throat constricted. Something wet and
traitorous bloomed between my thighs. You think that's filthy, Tyrrell said,
dropping from the top. Bunk without a sound. His body
is study in controlled motion. But your hands shaken on
that baton. He was right. I looked down at my
knuckles white where they gripped the truncheon. When I looked
up again, something had shifted. Some essential fulcrumb inside me
had tipped. And the woman who followed protocol, who tapped
doors and walked on, she was gone. In her place
stood someone who had been called a pig slut, and
discovered with vertiginous clarity that she wanted to roll in
the mud. The key slid into the lock with a
click that echoed like a gunshot strip search. I said,
both of you face the wall. Their grins should have
warned me. But as I closed the cell door behind me,
sealing us together in that concrete box, I realized those
grins were not triumph. They were hunger. The cell smelled
of sweat and powdered bleach. Marcus and Tyrrell faced the wall,
hand spread legs apart, perfect inmates, suddenly obedient. The contrast
made my pulse jump. My baton tapped Marcus first. I
ran it down his back, tracing the knobs of his
spine through his orange jumpsuit. Then lower, Pressing into the
cleft of his ass. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath.
You're awfully quiet now, I murmured, waitin' on you, officer.
The baton circled around to his front, trailing across his hip,
and then I felt it, the hard ridge beneath the fabric.
He was already rigid, straining against the prison issue cotton
tyrol two. I checked, running the smooth black length of
the truncheon along his inner thigh until I found the confirmation.
I needed both of you, hard as night sticks. The
laugh that escaped me was not a laugh I recognized,
and they called me the pig. I holstered the baton.
My uniform trousers fell to my ankles with a whisper
of nylon, and my my underwear followed a wet string
of arousal, stretching briefly before breaking. I bent over the
lower bunk, gripping the metal frame, presenting myself. The position
was obscene, degrading, exactly what I wanted eat. I said,
clean your pigs hole, and don't stop until I say so.
The first tongue was Marcus's broad, flat, the beard scratching
my inner cheeks. He started at the base of my
spine and worked downward in slow, worshipful strokes. Then Tyrol
joined his tongue sharper more pointed probing, where Marcus soothed
two mouths, one purpose. Oh fuck, the curse ripped from
me unbidden. My forehead pressed against the cool metal of
the bunk, a counterpoint to the wet inferno behind me.
They lapped and probed and cleaned there a rough cheek
scraping my sensitive skin. Tyrol's tongue circled my rim with
a precision that suggested practice, while Marcus's broad licks painted
my folds from behind, nose buried in the heat of
me filthy prison scum, I gasped, and the words felt
like velvet in my mouth, lapping at a pig's ass
like dogs. Yes, officer, Marcus, groaned into my flesh. You
love this, don't you? Eating dirty pig, cunt and whole.
Tyarril's laugh vibrated against my tailbone. Ask us something harder, Officer.
I let them feast. Minutes blurred, the world distilled to
the slick sounds behind me, the scratch of beards, the
obscene dedication of two tongues, cleaning every drop of sweat
from my most intimate places. When I finally pulled away,
spinning to face them, their chins glte listened with my
musk on your knees, both of you. They dropped, their cocks,
jutted from their open jumpsuits. Marcuses pale and thick, veined
like old wood, Tyrrells darker, longer, curving slightly upward from
a nest of trimmed hair. A thread of precumb stretched
from the tip of Tyrrell's to the slit of Marcus's,
glinting in the fluorescent light. I bent forward and severed
it with my tongue, then dragged my mouth from one
cock to the other, leaving a shining trail of saliva.
The taste was salt and skin, and the faint chemical
tang of prison soap. My mouth found Marcus, first, taking
him deep, my nose pressing into the gray curls at
his base. Then Tyrell, whose length I couldn't fully manage,
my hand wrapping around what my throat couldn't accommodate. I
moved between them, a pendulum of greed, my spit connecting
us like a web. Beneath them, I rolled their balls
over my tongue. Marcus is heavy and loose, Terrell's tighter, firmer,
then further, tilting their hips, exposing them. My tongue traced
each man's hole, and the sounds they made, broken whimpers,
bitten off curses were worth more than any pension this
job would ever pay. On the bunk, I ordered, pointing
at Marcus, on your back. He scrambled to obey. I
mounted him, reverse my back to his chest, sinking down
onto his thickness with a grunt that was half pain,
half prayer. He filled me, stretched me, and still I
leaned forward until I was on all fours above him. Tyrrell,
he didn't need more Behind me. The head of his
cock pressed against the same entrance Marcus already occupied. Impossible,
no inevitable. I pushed back against both of them, and
the ring of muscle surrendered two cocks in one cunt.
The sensation bordered on revelation, a fullness that was almost spiritual,
if sacrilege counted. They moved, Marcus thrusting up, Tyrrel driving down,
and their pubic bones found a rhythm slap slap. Their
balls met beneath me with each stroke, a wet percussion.
Pull my hair, I demanded, and Tyril's fist wound into
my bun, wrenching my head back. Marcus's mouth latched onto
my breast, the one he could reach, sucking hard enough
to bruise. Teeth grazed my neck. Fingers dug into my hips.
Pigs slut Tyrol grunted, his accent, slipping into something more guttural,
dirty convict felth. I spat back, the words splintering as
they pounded me from both directions. Come in your pig,
fill her up. The request, permission, command broke whatever restraint remained.
Marcus's hips stuttered, first, a guttural roar, tearing from his
chest as his cock pulsed inside me, flooding my channel
with heat. The sensation triggered Tyrrell, who drove deep and
held his release a series of violent spurts that mingled
with marcuses dripping down my thighs in thick ropey strands.
Three bodies collapsed into a heap of trembling limbs. The
bunk creaked under our combined weight. I could smell myself
on them, their beards, their chests, their softening cocks. They
were slick with me coated in the evidence of my corruption.
I dressed in silence. Every movement ached a pleasant, sacred ache.
Same time tomorrow, Marcus croaked from the bunk, eyes half litted,
chest still heaving. I smoothed my uniform, tucked the sweaty
strands of hair back into their bun, and retrieved my baton.
At the cell door, I paused, not turning around. If
you're lucky. The next evening, I didn't walk the block alone.
Officer Hartly flanked my left, her buzz cut and no
nonsense jaw, making her look like a marine recruitment poster.
Officer Vasquez flanked my right, shorter but built like a
pit bull, with a grin that suggested she'd enjoy a
good ryot Sell sixty nine, I said, twirling my baton
special inspection. Hartly raised an eyebrow. Vasquez chuckled low. We
stopped in of the bars. Marcus and Tyrell stirred from
their bunks. The exhaustion from last night still etched into
their posture. When they saw my companions, something flickered in
their eyes, surprise, fear, anticipation. I smiled, the slow, predatory
smile I'd been practicing in the locker room mirror. Time
to eat more pig ass you scum. I unlocked the
door and tonight there's a whole litter. I hoped you
enjoyed today's sexy story. If you love this podcast, leave
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Maybe we can make your dirty dreams come true. See
you soon.