The Trials of Wesley Stanford: Prologue
The Trials of Wesley Stanford
By F.M. Kitsune (gin.no.kitsune96@gmail.com)
Based on the characters and concept by Jasper Cooper © October 2019
DISCLAIMER: This story is a gay fantasy; no part of it is based in fact, and none of the characters are intended to resemble real persons. This story chronicles the humiliating ordeals an 18-year-old former high school senior turned state prisoner is unwillingly subjected to. Some of these humiliations have a strong sexual component. If you are underage, or do not want to read about such matters, you should leave this webpage at once. Assuming you do not fall into either category (you should not have made it this far if you did), I bid you: onward!
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PROLOGUE: Looks Like Meat's Back on the Menu, Boys
***
#7607678 and #7607680 laid out quietly on their individual bunks. 678 was on the top, 680 was on the bottom.
Both lay awake in the dark.
Both struggled desperately against the urge to cry out, to shed a tear.
Day one was an absolute shit show. A living, breathing, walking nightmare. There was no chance for either inmate to see their families, as they had been shunted out of the courtroom directly to holding cells in the back of the building. They were commanded to get out of their nice suits and into the jumpers that had been their uniforms for the past few weeks. The two young men, boys really, had given those suits a last longing look as they fought the realization that this was happening.
They had been found guilty.
Guilty of rape.
Guilty of blackmail.
Guilty of coercion.
Guilty of assault.
Guilty of kidnapping.
Guilty of prostitution.
Guilty of various counts of sodomy with foreign objects.
The victim had been more forgiving in the courtroom than the boys had any right to ask for. He dropped all charges save for rape and blackmail. And even then, he asked for leniency on their behalf, despite the fact those six boys—his former teammates, some 18 years old, some 19—repeatedly violated him, daily, frequently, for two weeks straight. They threatened to expose the boy's violation to the world if he didn't let them continue raping him—and the boy acquiesced, at the cost of his own health and sanity.
But the six boys even reneged on their promise to keep the brutality a secret. One boy was hell-bent on destroying the victim. He managed to broadcast the broken kid's repeated rapes, degradations, sexual torments, and humiliations to the whole world by way of social media. In the aftermath of the broadcast, the kid single-mindedly focused on ruining the victim's life met with the wrong end of an SUV going the prescribed speed limit at 50 miles per hour.
The single-minded young man didn't survive.
It came out in the trial for the remaining five young men that the victim tried to kill himself, but he was stopped by a college student who had been unwitting participant in the boy's degradation. It came out that the victim would need counseling for the unforeseeable future to treat post traumatic stress, social anxiety, nightmares, and a bevy of interpersonal relationship issues brought on by his torment at the hands of the people he once called his teammates.
Four of the boys were brought to justice. One boy, armed with his family's near-limitless resources, got off with a tap on the wrist. As soon as he left the courtroom after the others had been found guilty, the poor little rich boy disappeared like a fart in the wind.
At least the four of them would have something nice to wear when they got out of prison. That was a random thought that went through each boy's head as they watched the plastic bags with their court clothes disappear from view.
Two of the boys got sent to separate prisons without so much as a "See you in a few years" to the other two. It wasn't their choice—the COs in charge of them barely gave them a moment to blink and think when the suits and nice shoes were removed and bagged. The other two were all but shoved into a van bound for the same institution.
It was a prison called Stonehurst State Penitentiary just a few miles outside of Mount Pleasant.
But they weren't going to cry.
Prisoner 678 stepped out of the transit van with 680 not too far behind. The two were hustled into a massive concrete building that was as welcoming as a mausoleum. When they made it through the doors, they were herded into holding cell after cramped office after holding cell, enduring all manner of humiliations.
In the first room, the two were told to strip. When they hesitated, the sound of a charging taser got them out of their orange jumpsuits fast. Both boys tried to shield their intimate parts from view but were told loudly and coldly to stand up straight and keep their arms and hands at their sides—they were to be videoed for the examination.
The two quickly glanced at each other when a slammed fist against a metal table caught their attentions. A door was thrown open, and the two were told to line up single file and follow the red line to the next office.
678 looked down the hall. Floor to ceiling windows flanked the brightly lit hall from both sides. On one side of the hall was a dining area where dozens of inmates sat, waiting for what was coming. On the other side was the prison's yard, where others seemed to be standing around in anticipation, staring into the window.
With an angry shout from a CO, the two boys almost ran until they were directed to slow down, march single file, left foot, right foot, left, right. They followed the CO's cadence, not wanting to be punished—but the end result was they were on display for the whole prison to see.
Hoots of fresh meat, fresh fish, cat calls, loud comments on their front and rear anatomy, and just how long they'd stay fresh in prison heated both of the boys' heads.
But they weren't going to cry.
After what seemed like an hour of being paraded around for the pleasure of horny men promising violent fun at their expense, the two arrived in a room with a holding cell. A long bar hung from the ceiling just within arm's reach for both boys, and a long bar was bolted to the wall at about waist level for the two new prisoners. A man nearly half a foot taller than the two came in. His presence crowded the room. Beneath his white lab coat, both former basketball stars knew they were looking at a guy who clearly worked out. His name badge read "Doctor" something-or-other—the two never learned his name because orders were barked at them to bend at the waist! Keep your backs flat! Spread your legs wide! Wider!
The snap of hospital gloves accompanied by the lurid sound of lube squirting from a tube popped in the air. One boy gasped aloud and whimpered, having been tended to by the doctor first. The other boy had but to wonder at his friend's surprise and pained sounds when the sound of another glove snapping on and the squish of lube spreading preceded a most painful, startling entry into his own body.
The doctor was not kind. His fingers weren't forgiving. Two fingers went in without so much as gentle preparation, zeroing in on the prostate in a painfully clinical manner. The rough prodding and squeezing was enough to make the new inmate erect, though there would be no satisfaction to be had from the one-way exchange. A sharp order to grab the bar overhead and hold onto it was given, and both boys, cocks straining in the air, did as commanded.
The two young men looked at each other, fear in their eyes as they realized they were staring at a mirror. It was likely a one-way mirror, and they had just put on a show.
But they weren't going to cry.
More to the point, they were still putting on a show. The brutally large examiner roughly grabbed one boy's straining dick, jerking him off with a dry hand while the other boy watched. The one receiving the unkind handjob squirmed and bit his lip while the examiner spoke-whispered:
Enjoy it. It's the last kind action you're going to get. Make it look good, and maybe the guys behind the mirror will go easy on you.
678 shivered as he listened to 680 let out a soft, anguished cry. There was a banging behind the mirror, and a chant grew to the point the boys could hear it. It was tribal. Almost animal. It was a demand. A command. A horrifying desire.
Cum. Cum. Cum.
Their audience wouldn't be satisfied until 680 climaxed. But he looked so pained, and his dick was very red, and not from arousal—though the doctor seemed to be working his fingers into the boy's ass while jerking him.
Arousal might have been achieved, but it definitely wasn't what 680 wanted.
The thus-far unmolested inmate watched little tears squeeze from his friend's eyes. He winced as the doctor seemed to jam his fingers up the other inmate's ass vigorously, fingerfucking him without mercy. The boy cried out as an orgasm was ripped from him. Thick globs of cum spilled over the doctor's fingers. Without ceremony, the doctor stood and shoved his soiled fingers in the boy's mouth, commanding him to clean the cum from his hand, and to eat every drop. 680 sniffled and obeyed. He made as quick a job of things as possible before the examiner withdrew his hand.
The supposed doctor turned to the mirror, calling out loudly: You got all that?
A cry in the affirmative came back. The doctor then demanded they stop the video and start a new one. He then told the freshly assaulted inmate to let go of the overhead bar, sit down, and then enjoy the show.
678 knew what was coming. He was about to be violated. On camera. In front of an audience whose numbers he couldn't even begin to guess at. It sounded like a room full of men on the other side, hooting and whistling as the examiner began his torment with a rough kiss.
Fuck him! Open him up, doc! We wanna see him cry!
It was 678's dirty little secret. It managed to escape court notice, and his friend never spoke a word to anyone, but for all he knew, one of his own teammates might have sold him out for any little bit that would buy his own escape. Not that it mattered.
What was coming was coming. He had to play as if no one knew.
The doctor, while attractive, was certainly not causing arousal by his excessively rough treatment of the boy's mouth. The inmate squirmed as he held onto the bar, trying as hard as he could to get away from the doctor. But that only made the doctor grip him harder, pull him in tighter, closer. 678 felt the hardness of the body before him, and it was sending fireworks to his brain as the rough hands that had been on and inside 680 now pulled and pawed at him like he was meat on a hook in front of a hungry bear.
The examiner took off his coat, then his scrubs. Eventually, the well-built, hulking man stood before his prey just as naked. The difference was that when all this was over, one still got to wear his own clothes and live his own life. He'd go to the gym. Go to the pub, have a few beers, laugh with his buddies. He'd find a guy to bring home and fuck. Or a girl. Who knew? He'd be free, and free of this place.
The other two would just be playthings, judging from the way this "medical interview" had been going. Their first day included the shock of the sentencing, the shock of reality setting in, and this—a taste of the violation they inflicted on their victim.
The doctor grappled 678 once more, ripping him away from the bar and pulling him closer to the mirror. He whirled the young man around and pressed his face against the glass—a move which won the big man a chorus of raucous approval from the other side of the mirror. With a lewd lick of his prize's face, he growled in his ear:
Say that you want this. Say it or nod your head. Say it, or I throw you to the men behind the mirror right now, and you two shits won't see your cell for at least three days when they're all done with you.
The boy's heart pounded. This was definitely not what he wanted. But the options... Lose his virginity to one man, or risk being gang raped and likely more alongside his best friend on his first day in prison? He looked back at his friend.
"Wes, don't do it!" The boy on the bench hissed tearfully.
Oh, Jase...
Prisoner #678, also known as Wesley Stanford, did what he had to do. If it saved his best friend in the world from harm, he'd let himself be used. It was only fair. His victim wasn't really given a choice, and now, he was faced with a very similar decision.
So he did as he was told.
He nodded. He knew he couldn't refuse.
He couldn't let Jason be hurt on his behalf.
He wouldn't.
He also knew he was about to cry.
That lasted an hour.
The examiner had his way with Wes. The man's cock was proportionate to his body—large, thick, and relentlessly unforgiving. The prisoner gasped out of sync with each thrust that jammed into him. The feel of it pushing against his prostate should have been pleasurable, but what pleasure was to be had belonged solely to the examiner. 678 could only breathe erratically, unable to match up with the assault. The examiner took his hands and pressed him against the mirror. A sharp pain radiated from the side of his head as the man bit down on his ear. Not enough to draw blood, but certainly hard enough to cry out. The weight of the man pressed against him chaotically as he was thrust against the mirror with each pistoning of hips and cock into hips and freshly violated ring piece.
He cried.
But he didn't cry out.
The examiner banged him against the one way mirror until he came. The prisoner could feel the wetness and heat bursting into him—it was unprotected, and it was terrifying. He thought there'd be relief, but the examiner's stamina hadn't waned. With a wet probing of the man's tongue in his ear, Wes whimpered as the man started fucking into him again. Hoots and jeers from the other side of the mirror egged the examiner on as he screamed his yeahs and his fucks directly into Wes' ear. The prisoner felt his nipples get twisted, his chest groped, and the unkind grip the man had on the V-shape of his defined waist. Wes wanted to curse his physique at that point, but there was no point in the anger. After a few more long minutes, there was a shout, and more hoots and catcalls from the other side of the mirror rang out as the man shot another load into Wes' sore ass.
The examiner pulled away and slapped Wes in the back of the head, forcing him to knock his head against the mirror. It was a slight indignity, but not nearly as much of an indignity knowing he was standing there with the cum flowing freely from his gaping, winking hole.
"Kneel", the doctor said. Wes did as commanded. The monstrous doctor knelt down beside him and thrust two fingers into his freshly abused ass. He felt the man scoop out copious curds of his seed.
"You're in luck," the doctor said. "When I jerked off your girlfriend back there, I did it dry. You get the pleasure of my cum on your pitiful cock when I make you shoot your load. Kiss me and thank me, bitch."
Wes cried out as the man took his traitorously hard cock in hand. As he jerked Wes off, the man took hold of the prisoner's head and raped his mouth with his tongue. Wes whimpered into his captor's mouth while the man twisted and yanked on his sticky and sore cock. The prisoner gasped at the moment of his climax, and the doctor jammed his free fingers into Wes' ass, prodding his prostate until his cum splattered over the one-way mirror. Waves of pain, pleasure, and all-encompassing shame rippled through Wes as his jizz was wrung from his body. The doctor didn't stop until the pleasure turned into the shocking agony of being milked well past his orgasm.
The doctor finally pulled away, leaving Wes to crumple to the floor. The examiner slapped a large hand across Wes' face. "Clean my fingers, bitch—I don't want your jizz on my skin." Wes turned his face up to see cum-coated fingers hovering just over his nose. As he started to open his mouth, the doctor cruelly jammed his fingers in before he could move to accept them. The prisoner fought the urge to gag as he swirled his tongue over and between the fingers stained with his release.
Again, the doctor pulled away. Wes tried to look up at his assailant when another body was thrown onto his. Prisoner 680—his best friend, Jason Tucker, had been shoved down onto the floor alongside him.
"Clean off that mirror," the doctor yelled. Jeers and cheers rattled the glass as both Wes and Jason were forced to clean the mess with their mouths only. They crawled onto their hands tentatively, trying not to accidentally touch each other as they set about to their chore. When the sound of boos and curses came through the mirror, the doctor then pressed their faces together, demanding they taste each other's tongues. Both boys did so, which earned them even more lascivious cat calls from their unseen spectators. The doctor hooked both young men by their well-used sphincters and pulled them to standing position. Throwing some hand towels in their faces, he demanded they clean themselves up, clean each other up, facing the mirror the whole time.
They did so while the examiner dressed. But they hadn't met the man's liking. For their efforts, the doctor pulled a couple bottled waters from a nearby cabinet, uncapped them, and dumped them over the inmates' heads. He yelled at them, dry each other off, with those hand towels only! And act like you fucking like it!
It took time, but the newest members of the prison's population managed to comply. The prisoners ran the rags over each other, touching each other. The sound of hoots and approving whoops were their soundtrack as they tended to each other. Wes felt Jase run the damp towel down the inside of his leg, gently wiping away the trail of cum that had started to tack against his skin. Wes stifled a cry as the thought of his very recent violation pushed through the act of tenderness given to him by his friend. The examiner pulled out a clipboard, checked off some boxes, and paged for guards to escort them away. The prisoners barely had time to register that they were on the move again. When the guards arrived, the doctor sent them down a different hallway.
Still naked.
Still exposed to the general population just on the other side of the glass.
Thankfully, the guards didn't care if they marched. The boys walked at a brisker pace.
The next few hours were mercifully less cruel, though the degradation would continue. They were naked as they were shorn of the hair on their head. They were made to shower together, and quickly, before they were marched naked into the next area, where they received their clothes. But before they could don their new uniforms—a black and white-striped jumper and standard-issue black "sport shoes"—they were made to take their mugshots and body shots.
Yet another humiliation was being forced to listen to the prison staff as they went about their business, fingerprinting and photographing the naked inmates.
You boys sure are pretty. All those nice muscles are gonna look great bent over someone's bunk.
Hope you keep workin' out. Hate to see you turn into a dump truck in here.
I see the doc's got to you already. Damn, I bet he tore your asses up!
There's a Bible in your in-processing gear, son. Try to pick up on it as much as you can.
The last part wasn't humiliating, but it almost made the young men break down to hear someone speak to them with kindness instead of like farm animals ready to be bred and slaughtered.
The CO who offered them a fatherly voice ushered the other COs off as he let the boys dress in peace. When they were finished, he rounded up a younger guard—likely a new guard from the wild-eyed look he wore—and escorted the boys to their home for the next few years: While the older CO carried nothing, the younger had a tablet housed in an industrial shell. Within moments, they had arrived on the second floor of a cluster of cells.
Pod 40, Cell 2E.
"I'm Officer Roarke," the CO said. He was a formidable man, built like the examiner, but not nearly as freakishly tall. In fact, the boys noted they could see the top of the man's head as he led them into the room, putting him at least a few inches shorter than them.
"You boys better get comfortable. Lights-Out ain't for a couple hours, but I'm gonna turn off the lights in here anyway, and I'll let you two get some sleep while you can. If you have any problems, you ask for me, alright?"
Wes and Jason looked at each other, then at their kindly guard.
"Yes sir," the two said quietly.
"Sorry I couldn't meet you two at the door. I'd have steered you away from Doc Ox. But if you have to go to any infirmary, it'll be for this pod only. With any luck, you won't see him again.
"I'll explain more tomorrow. Just... keep your heads down, boys." Roarke nodded to the cell door, and the younger guard held it open for him as he stepped out. The novice guard tapped at the tablet a couple of times, and the two boys heard a lock engage.
This was it.
This was home.
"I'll uh... I'll take bottom bunk," Jason said.
Wes stared around at their surroundings. A steel-framed double bunk bed welded into the wall, a metallic toilet/sink combination, and two small, empty shelves built into the wall above the sink. Jason put down his thin pillow and his scratchy blanket over the mattress on the bottom bunk and sat down gingerly. Wes simply stood there, staring, holding his pillow and blanket.
"Wes," Jason whispered.
"Yeah, bro?"
"I'm sorry," the seated boy said.
"For what?" Wes replied. He was in his own little world where he stood. The aches and pains of his body's recent violations seemed like shadows in fog.
"Can you look at me, Wes? Please?"
The standing boy turned. Jason's eyes were bloodshot and tear-stained.
"I'm sorry you had to do that, to do it... for me," Jason said haltingly. Wes knew it'd be hard for Jason to say—that Wes sacrificed a piece of himself to keep his friend from the fire.
"Let's not talk anymore today, Jase."
"But—"
"I love you, Jason. I do. But right now, I just want to close my eyes, and try not to cry anymore, okay?"
Wes didn't miss how his best friend, his chosen brother, bit his lip. Jason nodded, almost imperceptibly, and turned to lie down. Wes climbed up the side of the bunk and inched to the center of his mattress, using both his pillow and his blanket to lay his head upon as he positioned himself with his back against the wall, curled in the fetal position.
So this was day one, he thought. He looked down at the number on his jumpsuit. #7607678. Seven plus five is twelve. Six plus six is twelve. Zero plus twelve is twelve. Seven plus five is twelve. Wes went on through each digit in his inmate ID number in this manner, making each number add up to the only number stuck in his head:
Twelve.
Twelve years for rape and blackmail.
It really happened.
He really did it.
He couldn't deny it, laid out in a cell inside of a pod inside of a prison, miles removed from the world he knew.
A world where he was a shoo-in for Prom King.
A world where he was waving around the paperwork for a full-ride scholarship, just handed to him at the end of the championship game he and his teammates won together.
A world where he and Nate won that game, all things considered.
He did all that to Nate.
And now, he had to pay.
It was only fair.
But it didn't stop him from crying himself to sleep.
And cried he did.
**To be continued.
Copyright 2024 F.M. Kitsune. All rights reserved.
Comments and questions welcome! Contact me at gin.no.kitsune96@gmail.com.
For the original story that the main character is a part of, read Jasper Cooper's work, "The Downfall of Nate Ramsey".