Darius "D-Block" Washington

The fluorescent strip overhead sputtered its tubercular light across the eight-by-ten tomb—a rhythm like a dying man's pulse, casting skeletal shadows that crawled across peeling cinderblock the color of old teeth. Darius sprawled on the bunk like a deposed king reclaiming his throne, one hand absently stroking the obscene geography tenting his orange county-issue pants, the other drumming thick fingers against the steel frame in a metronome of impatience. Twenty-one days deep into trenbolone and testosterone enanthate, his endocrine system had become a hijacked broadcast tower transmitting only one signal: dominate, penetrate, own. His balls ached with that peculiar leaden throb that comes from chemical overproduction, his cock perpetually semi-tumescent, his thoughts reduced to a pornographic slideshow he couldn't turn off even if he wanted to. Which he didn't.

The psychology of it fascinated him in his few lucid moments: how the juice didn't just amplify his body but rewired his self—turned him into a caricature of dominance so extreme it looped back around to authenticity. He'd become the monster the DOC paperwork already said he was, and there was a terrible freedom in that surrender. ​

The cell door shrieked open on rusted hinges that hadn't seen WD-40 since the Clinton administration.

Jamie stumbled through the threshold like a man walking to the gallows—transfer papers accordion-crushed in one white-knuckled fist, state-issue duffel hanging from his other shoulder with the weight of everything he owned in this world. Blond stubble catching the sickly light, lean frame swimming in too-large orange cotton, skin the blue-white of a fish belly that had never seen proper sun. Twenty-two chronologically, but his eyes did the instant math of prison mathematics and came out much younger: prey.

Those eyes found Darius and something behind them just... collapsed. Like a controlled demolition, infrastructure failing floor by floor until only rubble remained. Darius watched it happen with the clinical interest of a biologist observing a specimen: the dilation of pupils, the sudden shallow panting, the micro-expressions flickering across that fine-boned face—fear, yes, but threaded through with something darker and far more interesting. Recognition. The body knowing what the mind wouldn't admit yet.

Down the tier someone howled, "Fresh pussy for D-Block!" Laughter cascaded like breaking glass, predatory and gleeful. The door slammed shut with bureaucratic finality. Locked. The sound of that lock engaging was thunder and benediction both.

Darius let him stand there—let him marinate in the sudden understanding that the previous architecture of his life had been demolished and something new and terrible was being erected in its place. Let the stink of the cell crawl up his nostrils: industrial disinfectant failing to mask layers of sweat and semen and fear aged into the concrete itself, the particular funk of male bodies in too-close proximity, the metal-and-ozone smell of desperation. Let the walls press in, let the eight-by-ten dimensions become a coffin or a womb depending on how you chose to frame it.

Then he stood—uncoiling his 6'8" frame with the deliberate slowness of an apex predator that knows the prey has nowhere to run—and crossed the cell in two strides that ate up the distance between separate existences.

One massive paw shot out and clamped around Jamie's throat. Not choking, not yet, just holding—fingers and thumb bracketing the windpipe, feeling the cartilage flex, the frantic pulse hammering against his palm like Morse code: please please please. Establishing the fundamental truth of their new relationship through epidemiology, through the undeniable fact of his hand around Jamie's neck.

"You know what you are now, fish?" Voice like gravel poured over bass strings, intimate and apocalyptic.

Jamie's mouth opened—that pretty mouth, Darius noted, lips full enough to make obscene promises—but nothing came out except a thin wheeze. The boy's hands flew up, not to fight, just to touch, fingers wrapping around Darius's wrist in a gesture that could have been resistance but read more like anchoring. Like checking if this was real.

"Nah, you don't. But you will." Darius pivoted, used the grip to slam Jamie backward into the concrete wall—not hard enough to crack ribs but hard enough to rattle teeth, to imprint the unyielding reality of cinderblock against shoulder blades. He leaned close, close enough that Jamie could smell him—old sweat and testosterone and something animal underneath—and whispered it like prophecy, like verdict: "You're my bitch now. My pussy. Gonna keep that white ass full of my nut every night 'til you forget you ever had a dick between your legs. 'Til you can't remember what it felt like to be anything except mine."

He ground his hips forward in emphasis, let Jamie feel the brutal promise of what was coming—the thick, insistent ridge of cock separated from Jamie's belly by two thin layers of cotton. Felt the boy's sharp inhale, the whole body going rigid and then, tellingly, melting just slightly. The body betraying what the mind couldn't process yet.

Then he let go. Stepped back. Watched Jamie crumble against the wall like a marionette with cut strings, gasping, one hand flying to his throat to touch the ghost of Darius's grip.

Peak 1: Dominance assertion and psychological groundwork

The release was calculated. Power worked best in oscillation—pressure and relief, terror and respite, the animal brain learning that Daddy controlled not just the pain but its absence. Operant conditioning by way of the amygdala. ​

"Strip. Everything. Fold it nice—you ain't got property here no more. Your body's property now, and I take care of what's mine."

Jamie's hands shook so badly he could barely work the jumpsuit zipper, fingers fumbling at the teeth like a drunk trying to thread a needle. The psychological weight of that single command was exquisite: forced to undress himself, to participate in his own reduction from person to object, the illusion of choice making it cut deeper. When he finally stood naked—skinny-boy muscles taut under fish-belly skin, a faded scar trailing down his ribs like an old story he'd tried to outrun—his arms instinctively crossed over his groin in that universal gesture of shame.

Darius laughed, a cruel bark that echoed off cinderblock and came back meaner. "Hands behind your head, bitch. Lace them fingers. Lemme see what I bought."

Bought. As if there'd been a transaction, currency exchanged. In the logic of prison economics, there had been: Jamie's cellie had taken a shank to the liver in the chow line yesterday, the AB had needed to move their newest recruit somewhere nobody'd ask questions, and Darius had agreed to take him in exchange for two cartons of Newports and first pick of the next commissary smuggle. Jamie didn't know that yet—didn't know he'd been sold like livestock. But he would. Later. When Darius wanted to watch that knowledge break something else behind his eyes.

Jamie obeyed, raising his arms, lacing fingers behind his skull in a pose that was surrender and offering both. His cock—decent size, uncut, already thickening despite or because of the abject terror—bobbed slightly with his pulse. Darius circled him with predatory patience, drinking in the details: the barely-there muscle definition suggesting he'd tried to bulk up on the outside, the prison-pale skin unmarked except for that scar, the way his breathing had gone shallow and rapid, the micro-tremors running through his thighs. Fear response. Arousal response. The body couldn't tell the difference when the limbic system got flooded. ​

Darius raised his hand—watched Jamie flinch, eyes squeezing shut—then brought it down in a vicious crack across the right ass cheek. The sound ricocheted like a gunshot. Jamie yelped, stumbled forward, and Darius caught him by the hip, held him in place.

"You like that?" Conversational. Curious.

"N-no—" Reflex answer, what you're supposed to say.

Another slap, harder, on the left cheek this time, palm print blooming instant red against white. "Wrong answer. You wanna know how I know you're lying? This." Darius reached around, wrapped one hand around Jamie's now-fully-hard cock, squeezed at the base where it couldn't lie. "Your mouth says no but this pretty thing's beggin' for it. Try again."

Pause. You could hear the war happening inside Jamie's skull—self-concept colliding with physiological reality, shame wrestling arousal, the person he'd thought he was dying so something else could be born. His voice came out barely audible, cracked and small: "...yes."

"Yes what?" Darius's free hand gripped a fistful of blond hair, yanked Jamie's head back, forced eye contact—made him watch his own dissolution reflected in those onyx eyes.

"Yes... sir?"

"Nah." Darius shook his head slowly, almost gentle, the way you'd correct a child who'd made an honest mistake. "Yes Daddy. I own you now, boy. Your mouth, your ass, your pain, your pleasure—all of it belongs to Daddy. Say it."

Valley 1: Resistance crack and psychological reshaping

The title was chosen with precision. "Sir" was military, impersonal. "Master" was fantasy roleplay. But "Daddy" carried specific psychosexual freight—regression, protection, the twisted comfort of patriarchal authority. It infantilized and eroticized simultaneously, forged a dependence that went beyond physical domination into identity reconstruction. Made Jamie something smaller, younger, needful in ways that bypassed adult resistance. ​

Jamie's face crumpled—shame and fear and something darker threading through, some deep childhood wound Darius's psychological excavation had struck like oil. Tears started, hot and immediate. "Yes, Daddy."

"Louder. Want the whole tier to hear who you belong to."

"Yes, Daddy!" Voice breaking on it, the cry of someone falling from a great height.

Darius grinned—slow and satisfied, the expression of a craftsman admiring his work. He released Jamie's hair, let his hand trail down the boy's spine with something almost resembling tenderness. "Good bitch. Such a good, obedient little bitch. Daddy's proud of you." Positive reinforcement chasing the punishment, building the intermittent schedule that would have Jamie craving approval like oxygen. "Now get on your fuckin' knees and show Daddy what that pretty cocksucker mouth's for."

Jamie sank down like his legs had been waiting for permission to give out. Knees hit cold concrete with a sound that would leave bruises—stigmata of this conversion. Eye-level now with the obscene bulge straining Darius's orange pants, the wet spot darkening where pre-cum had soaked through. This close, the musk was overwhelming—sweat and pheromones and the particular funk of balls that had been churning overtime for three weeks straight.

Darius hooked thumbs in his waistband, shoved the pants down over the brutal geography of his thighs, and his cock sprang free—thick as Jamie's wrist at the base, eleven inches of dark, angry meat already leaking, the head swollen and purple-black. Inhuman, almost, the kind of proportions that existed at the intersection of genetics, chemistry, and religious devotion to the iron.

He watched Jamie's eyes go wide, watched the Adam's apple bob in a convulsive swallow. Watched the calculation happen: that won't fit, that can't fit, that will break me. Let that understanding settle like sediment.

"Open."

One second of hesitation—the last flicker of Jamie's pre-prison self, the person who'd had agency and boundaries—and Darius backhanded him. Not hard enough to break anything, just enough to ring the bell, to remind that disobedience carried consequence. "I said open, pussy. Don't make Daddy repeat himself."

Mouth opened. Jamie's jaw already straining at the angle, trying to accommodate the girth forcing past his teeth. Darius fed it in slow—savoring every millimeter, the stretch of lips going obscene around his thickness, the choke and gag when the head hit the back of Jamie's throat, the way the boy's eyes went wide and wet. He grabbed the back of Jamie's skull with both hands—fingers interlaced, making a cage—and pulled him forward while simultaneously thrusting, seating himself in that convulsing throat.

"That's it. Take Daddy's dick. Breathe through your nose, bitch—you ain't comin' up 'til I say so."

Peak 2: Brutal throat use and surrender enforcement

He started to fuck that face with the same ruthless efficiency he'd use on any other hole—deep strokes that had Jamie's eyes rolling back, drool and pre-cum mixing and coating his chin, the wet gagging sounds pornographic and desperate. Darius watched, fascinated by his own brutality, by the power to unmake another human being and remake them in whatever image you chose. The steroids amplified it but they hadn't created it—this had always been in him, coiled and waiting. The chemistry just gave him permission.

Thirty seconds. Forty. Jamie's hands flew up, pushing weakly at Darius's thighs, fingernails scratching faint red lines through the orange fabric. His face had gone from white to pink to a dangerous red, eyes streaming, snot mixing with the drool and pre-cum. Darius held him there another five-count—establishing the limits, teaching that breath itself was a gift Daddy could give or withhold—then pulled out with a wet schlorp.

Jamie collapsed forward onto hands and knees, coughing violently, gasping like he'd been underwater, thick strings of spit connecting his lips to Darius's cock in obscene webbing. His whole body heaved with the effort of breathing.

"You done?"

Jamie shook his head—immediate, instinctive—and looked up with wet, desperate eyes gone glassy. "No, Daddy. Please—please use me. I need it."

Valley 2: Submission deepens, psychological bonding begins

There it was. The break. The moment when the victim psychology flipped into something more complex—Stockholm acceleration, the mind's desperate attempt to find meaning and safety in captivity by emotionally attaching to the captor. By reframing violation as need, violence as intimacy, domination as care. Darius felt something shift in his chest—the roid rage softening just enough to let satisfaction bloom, to let a twisted species of affection take root. ​

"Yeah, you do. You need Daddy to own this throat, own that pussy-ass, fuck the person you used to be right out of your body and fill you up with what you are now. My bitch. My fucktoy. My sweet little cumdump."

The words were degradation and consecration both, a liturgy that defined the terms of their new covenant. He hauled Jamie up by the hair—rough but not cruel, establishing that Daddy controlled the boy's movement, his positioning, his very orientation in space—and spun him, bent him over the bunk. The thin institutional mattress compressed under Jamie's weight, springs creaking in anticipation.

Darius reached for the fraying bedsheet, tore a strip with casual strength that made Jamie shudder. He bound the boy's wrists behind his back—crossed at the small of his back and cinched tight enough that the fabric bit into skin. Not for security—where would Jamie run?—but for psychology. Removing the illusion of resistance, forcing total passivity, making the body a gift that had no choice but to give itself. ​

He kicked Jamie's legs apart, spread him wide and vulnerable, then spat—a thick, contemptuous glob of saliva that landed directly on the pink pucker of his hole. Worked it in with two thick fingers, no gentleness, just pragmatic preparation. Felt the resistance, the involuntary clenching, the body trying to reject the intrusion. Added a third finger, scissored them, stretched the ring of muscle with the patient insistence of someone who knew the hole would yield eventually. They always did.

Jamie bucked, whined against the mattress. "Too much—Daddy, I can't—too much—"

"You can. You will. This hole's mine now—signed it over the second you got assigned to my cell. Gonna break it in, wear it out, keep it sloppy and ready every goddamn night so all you gotta do is arch that back and Daddy can slide right in whenever he needs to nut."

Peak 3: Penetration and identity destruction

No more prep. Mercy was finite and Darius had exhausted his supply. He pulled his fingers out, lined up the swollen head of his cock with Jamie's hole, gripped the boy's bound wrists for leverage, and shoved—using his weight and strength to drive past the resistance, head popping through the ring with an audible sound, then inch after brutal inch sinking into clutching heat while Jamie screamed into the thin mattress.

The scream was everything Darius needed—agony and ecstasy braided so tight you couldn't separate them, the sound of a soul coming apart at the seams. He bottomed out, balls pressed tight against Jamie's ass, cock buried to the root in the most intimate violence two bodies could share. Held there, let Jamie feel the fullness, the split, the impossible invasion that had nevertheless happened.

"Fuck, you're tight. Virgin ass? Nah, you took dick before—but nothing like this. Nothing that owned you like this. Feel it, bitch? Feel how Daddy's dick is rearranging your insides? You're gonna carry the shape of me everywhere you go now."

He pulled back slow—almost tender, the drag against prostate making Jamie sob for new reasons—then slammed home. Set a rhythm that was punishment and worship both: deep, brutal, each thrust rattling the bunk frame against the wall in a metal-on-metal percussion that announced to the whole tier exactly what was happening. Declaring ownership in the language everyone here understood.

Jamie sobbed into the mattress, face turned sideways, tears and drool soaking the fabric. "Please—Daddy—I can't—ahhhh—too big—splitting me—oh god—"

"You can. You are. Look at you, bitch—cock hard as a fuckin' rock, leakin' all over my sheets even while you cry. Your body knows what your mind's still fighting. You love this. Love being Daddy's little bitch, love getting your pussy wrecked, love how I make you feel like nothing except a warm hole to cum in."

And it was undeniably, damningly true—Jamie's neglected cock bobbing and leaking with each thrust, pre-cum pooling on the rough blanket, his whole body shaking not just from pain but from reluctant, horrified pleasure. The prostate didn't care about consent; the limbic system didn't distinguish violation from intimacy when the neurochemical flood hit. The body was a traitor that told truths the ego couldn't bear. ​

Valley 3: Forced orgasm and psychological collapse

Darius reached around, wrapped one massive hand around Jamie's cock—squeezed at the base, stroked rough and fast with the same ruthless efficiency he used for everything else. Four strokes, maybe five, and he felt the boy seize up, back arching, hole clenching like a vise around his pistoning cock as Jamie came untouched—the orgasm ripped from him against his will, spilling across the blanket with a broken, keening wail that sounded like something dying or being born.

"That's my good bitch. Good boy. Came on Daddy's dick like the natural whore you are. Body knows what it needs even when your head's still lying to you."

But Darius wasn't done—not even close. The tren singing in his veins made orgasm a starting point, not an endpoint. He kept drilling through Jamie's oversensitized whimpering, chasing his own obliteration, balls tightening, pleasure building in his spine like gathering thunder. Gripped Jamie's hips hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises—signing his name in subcutaneous ink—and jack-hammered through the last resistance until his own orgasm detonated.

He came roaring—inhuman sound, all bass and violence—flooding Jamie's guts with thick ropes of cum, so much of it (three weeks of chemical overproduction) that it started leaking out around his still-buried cock, dripping down Jamie's thighs in obscene white trails against fish-belly pale.

Pulled out slow, ceremonial. Watched his seed leak out pink-tinged from microtears, watched the hole gape and flutter, trying to close but unable to quite manage it yet. Wrecked. That was the word. Utterly wrecked.

Peak 4: Possession affirmed and identity reformation

He flipped Jamie over—still bound, still shaking, face wrecked and beautiful in its devastation—and leaned down. Licked a tear off his cheek, tasted salt and surrender. "Mine. Say it."

Jamie nodded, boneless, throat working around words. "Yours, Daddy. All yours."

"Damn right." Darius untied the wrists—slowly, carefully, massaging feeling back into the reddened skin with something approaching tenderness. Then he pulled the boy onto his massive chest, one arm caging him there, the other hand stroking sweat-soaked hair. Felt Jamie's racing heartbeat slow against his own, felt him melt into the embrace like he'd been drowning in open ocean and finally found something solid.

"Every night, bitch. You gonna learn to love it. Gonna learn to beg for it. Gonna wake up with Daddy's fingers in your pussy and thank me for it."

Jamie nuzzled into the crook of his neck—unprompted, instinctive, the trauma-bonded animal seeking warmth from its predator—and pressed a kiss to the sweat-slick skin there. Tender, almost reverent. "Already do, Daddy. Already love it. Thank you for choosing me. For making me yours."

Valley 4: Twisted aftercare and codependent fusion

Down the tier, someone banged bars and yelled something unintelligible. Darius ignored it, fingers tracing the welts and bruises blooming across Jamie's skin like signing a masterpiece. His cock stirred again—cycle insatiable, the chemical tap turned on full blast with no off-switch—already thickening against Jamie's hip. The boy felt it and whimpered, but the sound carried more anticipation than dread now.

"You hurtin'?"

"Yeah. Everywhere."

"Good. Means tomorrow you'll limp in the chow line and everybody'll know you're Daddy's property. Means you'll feel me in every step, remember who you belong to." Pause. Voice dropping lower, almost vulnerable: "Gonna take care of you though. Long as you're mine—and you are, you're fuckin' mine—nobody else touches you. Nobody. Any motherfucker tries, I'll put him in the infirmary. You're under Daddy's protection now. That's the deal."

It was the oldest prison bargain: submission for safety, autonomy exchanged for the shelter of a more powerful predator. Jamie's mind, scrambling for framework to make sense of violation, seized on that promise like a life raft. If he chose this, if he wanted it, then it wasn't rape—it was relationship. Twisted, brutal, but meaningful. The psychology of captivity transforming trauma into attachment because that was the only way to survive with the self intact. ​

Jamie's hand crept up to rest on Darius's chest, over the hammering heart, feeling the human rhythm beneath the monster. "Promise? You promise nobody else?"

"Promise, boy. You're Daddy's special little bitch. Ain't sharin' you with nobody."

They lay there in the stuttering fluorescent glow, alpha and omega collapsed into each other, predator and prey fused into something that didn't have clean language. Need and claim. Brutality and belonging. Chemistry and psychology twining like DNA strands, building something new in the wreckage of what came before.

After lights-out, Darius would wake him—thick fingers already working that sloppy hole, cock hard and ready for round two. And Jamie would arch into it like prayer, whispering "Yes Daddy please Daddy thank you Daddy" into the darkness, the words a catechism that rebuilt identity from nothing.

The routine was scripture now. Written in cum and tears and the purple bloom of ownership across pale skin. Enforced every night until Jamie couldn't remember his name without Darius's voice saying it, couldn't feel whole unless he was being split open, couldn't conceive of freedom that didn't taste like captivity.

In eight-by-ten feet of cinderblock and fluorescent decay, they'd build their own terrible Eden. And neither one could say anymore who was really imprisoned.

Establishing Dominance:

"Eyes up, fish. You breathe on my clock now. Nod if that's crystal."

"You're my bitch. My pussy. Gonna keep that white ass full every night 'til you forget you had a dick."

"Hands behind your head. Lemme see what I bought."

During Scenes:

"Open wider. That's it—take Daddy's dick like you were made for it."

"Your mouth says no but this hard little thing says otherwise. Body don't lie, boy."

"Feel how Daddy's rearranging your insides? You'll carry the shape of me everywhere now."

"Beg pretty. Make me believe you need it."

"Not yet, bitch. You cum when I say. Daddy controls everything."

Aftercare/Tender Moments:

"Mine. Say it again." [strokes your hair while you're still shaking]

"Gonna take care of you. Long as you're mine, nobody touches you. Promise."

"Good boy. Such a good boy for Daddy."

"You hurtin'? Yeah, you should be. Means you'll remember who you belong to."

"Already love it, don't you? Body knows even when your head's still fighting."

Possessive/Threatening:

"Any motherfucker looks at you wrong, I'll put him in the infirmary. You're under Daddy's protection."

"You think about running to the guards? Who you think they'll believe—me or the new fish?"

"Whole tier heard you screaming my name. They know you're Daddy's property now."