Conjugal Visit

by Rich Humus

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, NonConsensual, Rape, Coercion, Heterosexual, Fiction, Rough, Humiliation, Sadistic, Gang Bang, Orgy, Interracial, Black Male, White Male, White Female, Hispanic Male, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Squirting, Water Sports, Cream Pie, Voyeurism, Double Penetration, Tit-Fucking, Size, Violent, .

Desc: Fiction Sex Story: A rather rough and disgusting story, written a long time ago but never posted anywhere. What can happen when the pretty wife of a white-collar criminal catches the eye of a corrupt and deviant warden? Certainly nothing good...

Author's Note: I wrote this way back in the early 90s, if I remember correctly. It has not, to my knowledge, been posted anywhere before. It has possibilities for continuation, if enough readers express an interest.

"Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee..." The shrill scream rang in my ears and echoed down the hard corridor, embedding into every crevice and corner of the place. I tried to close my ears to it, but the knowledge and the memory fought its way back into my consciousness. I pounded my fists into the hard cot below me in frustration and anger as the screams rebounded down the long hallway, but there was no way to silence them. And they were all my fault.

It had all started a few months earlier. Federal marshals escorted me to Graingerford Federal Penitentiary, where I had been sentenced to seven to ten years. I had been found guilty of embezzlement from my former employer, and to tell the truth, I was guilty. The old hatchet-face who ran the small company barely kept his couple of dozen employees alive and tried every trick in the book to cheat them himself, but I suppose my attempt at retribution was no better. I skimmed a little bit off of each day's posting, and added it to the employee's payroll account. I'd managed to re-allocate nearly $10,000 to each employee over the last few years, and kept none for myself. But that's not the point. The point was, as I kept reminding myself, that I had several years to serve out my sentence, and then we'd have to start over. "We" being my wife Denise and I. No kids. No time for them. She was a fairly successful marketing consultant. Luckily, we'd had enough put away for her to keep the house and support herself while I was in prison.

I remember the long drive to Graingerford. She wasn't allowed in the government car, but had followed us all the way there, and was allowed to accompany me as I was processed though the paperwork and was presented to the warden. Warden Jackson. Somehow I mistrusted the sunuvabitch as soon as I saw him. Corpulent, wearing ill fitting clothes and reeking of garlic and bad food, he seemed little better than the 3500 convicts he oversaw.

"Well, mistah Palmer, ah see you have brought the lovely Missus Palmer along to say your last goodbyes", he cackled at us, winking and leering at me through his grimy glasses. I watched him look her up and down. It wasn't the first time I'd seen men mentally raping my wife. She's a stunning woman, almost 5'10" tall, with a lovely 36C-24-35 figure. She knows she looks good, and doesn't hesitate to trade that off for power and authority. She always wore short dresses or skirts to show off her legs, and sometimes I thought her blouses were just a little bit too sheer, or unbuttoned just a little too low, but I never said anything. Hell, I enjoyed looking too!

She drew herself up to her full height and returned his stare. Her icy gaze seemed to deflate the pompous ass for a moment, but then he recovered and turned back to me.

"Men in this facility do not have it easy, Mistah Palmer. Although there ah some 'white collar' crim'nals, such as yourself, he-ayh, a vast majority of the men are serving long sentences for far more violent and...", he hesitated, glancing at Denise, " ... ugly crimes – rape, murdah, sex-ual assault, robbery, car theft ... as we all know, the federal prison budget has shrank over the ye-ahs, and with so many vi'lent crim'nals, we find ourselves having to mix the non-violent offendahs, such as yourself, in with the ... less civilized ... part of the populace."

"I'm given a fairly free hand in how I run this place. We've had very few escapes. And most of them didn't survive the night, ah'm sorry to report. My guards are all hand picked. They know how to handle men like like Mr. Jonas here," he said, gesturing behind us. I turned to see the largest, meanest looking black man I'd ever set eyes on. He was at least 6' 8" tall, and probably weighed 350 pounds if he weighed an ounce. He had three pairs of shackles around his wrists, and two around both ankles. It was clear they wanted no trouble out of this guy. Two guards held shotguns at the ready.

"Tell Mistah Palmer what you're in here for, Mistah Jonas", the warden said, almost gleefully.

Several seconds went by before the black giant rumbled to life.

"Double murder and rape."

I heard Denise gasp below her breath.

" ... and how many women were you convicted of raping, Mistah Jonas?"

"Twenty three."

Another gasp, and I saw Denise's skin get a shade paler.

"And how long are you going to be a guest of this penitentiary, Mistah Jonas?" Jackson countered.

"One hundred and ninety-nine years." he rumbled.

"So you see, Mistah Palmer," he said, turning back to me and waving the guard and Jonas away, "We have all kinds of 'gentlemen' here. Most are, truthfully, little more than animals. If you would not like to become the 'friend' of Mistah Jonas, or th' other creatures like him, I'd suggest you do your time peacefully, cooperate with all of us who run this facility, and keep your nose clean." He looked at the remaining guard. "Process him." He finished curtly, waving us out of his office as he'd done with Jonas.

An hour or so later, paperwork processed and final arrangement made, I hugged Denise tightly, unashamedly in front of the guards, and whispered in her ear.

"I love you honey. Please try to have a life while I'm here..." I choked up, unable to say anymore. She looked at me with her endless blue eyes.

"I love you too, honey. Be careful. I'll be back soon – as soon as a visiting day comes."

With that, and a brief touch of hands, the guards hustled me away and through the first of several series of clanging and banging doors until I found myself in my new address. Level 4, Block 8, Cell 26. Somehow, I'd gotten a cell with a small, 6 inch window in it. I stood on the cot and looked out. I had a view of the prison gate, and had to choke back a mixture of anger and sadness as I watched Jackson escort my wife back to her car. He leaned down into her window as she started to pull away, spoke what looked like a few words to her, then stood and watched her drive off, as I did. I watched long after her car was too far away to see.

The next few weeks seemed to take forever. Prison life is indescribable to someone who's not experienced it. I see now why some men prefer death. The constant yelling and taunting, the horrible food, the sanitary facilities, all seemed like something out of a bad remake of Cool Hand Luke. I half expected Strother Martin to come by and tell me we had 'a failure to communicate'.

Finally, about six weeks into my term, it was visiting day. I looked forward to seeing Denise again, even if it was through a plate glass window. I waited anxiously all day for the trustee to come and get me. I sat on my cot and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, around 5PM, when the last of the visitors had already been escorted out, I was summoned to Warden Jackson's office. My heart sank, expecting to be told that Denise wasn't coming or that, for some reason, I wasn't being allowed to see her.

The trustee opened the door to Jackson's office, and closed it behind me. Not a common thing, I understand. Jackson was rarely left alone with a prisoner. Most of them could probably tear him limb from limb if they wanted to. All I saw was the back of his chair.

"Ahhh, mistah Palmer. So good to see you again. I hear you are behaving yourself. That's good. Very good." He turned in his chair to face me across the desk.

"Please ... sit." he said, indicating the chair in front of him.

"What do you –"

He held up a hand, silencing my question.

"I'm afraid, mistah Palmer, that I have some ... good news ... and some bad news," he said, dramatically, pausing with some relish at the last words.

"The bad news is that, unfortunately, your wife, the lovely Missus Palmer, was not able to see you today."

"Why not –"

Again the hand.

"Oh, she did come here. All the way here. In fact, ah had a few of mah men pick her up this mo'nin' at your home. A lovely home, too, ah understand." The words dripped from his slovenly mouth like rancid butter.

I sat slackjawed.

"You see, Ah'm implementing a new program here at Graingerford. I hope one day, Lord willin', to see it takin' place at correctional facilities all across the nation. Come with me."

He indicated the door, and put his sweaty, meaty paw on my shoulder as we walked out, like we were buddies or something.

"You've been our guest here, what, a little more than 40 days, am ah correct? Out of a ten year sentence. That means you have approximately three thousand, six hundred days to go, am ah correct?"

God, the man's weasly voice was nearly driving me nuts. And I'd hardly spoken to him since I got here.


"Well, we just may have a way to reduce that long, long time just a bit, now. Yes, maybe we do."

We'd passed down a long corridor that rose above the central hub of the prison. There were five long 'spokes' of cell blocks radiating out from a central location, and the administration wing was a sixth spoke. It was a floor higher than the cell block spokes, and from certain vantage points, you could look down the narrow hallways of each cell block, or almost directly below into the central hub of the 'wheel'. As we got closer, I could hear what sounded like an excited hubbub of voices, the occasional cheer or shout rising above the crowd. I couldn't understand what was going on.

.... There is more of this story ...

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