Warning, this story may contain explicit descriptions of sexual acts between boys of various ages and/or men and boys. If this is not to your tastes, please leave now.

The author retains copyrights to the story. 

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By Chris Carr

Copyright 1999



Lying on his bunk, a temporary haven fell over the wing. Keone stared up into darkness. The silence was sweet, luxuriating, blanketing. Tranquil. But the discomforting wail of some poor boy eventually rang out, grating Keone's nerves like a sandblaster. Other cries joined the lone wailing, the clamor and chatter returning, filling the wing. Facing the wall, Keone closed his eyes, another night's sleep in question.

He'd never felt so alone, alienated and vulnerable before in his entire life. Imprisoned in the completely foreign environment of the Forester Juvenile Detention Center, Keone was lost. He pined for the simple, carefree life he took for granted in his 'hood'. He missed his homey's Russell, Rashawn and Zooney, and, though he would never admit it, he missed Jordie too. He missed his mother and the comfort and security of his little house. He missed his own private room and the times alone that seemed sacred now. Clutching his blanket, he pulled his knees toward his stomach, desperately trying to calm himself.

"Hey! Hey y'all! Let me go home, man! It wudn't me, man! I didn't shoot that nigga, man! It wudn't me!" It was one of the new boys, the reality of where he was panicking him.

"Shut the fuck up!" Another boy yelled.

He'd never get used to it. The bedlam was perpetual, one frightened boy after another yelling throughout the night. As obsessed as Keone was with sex, it hadn't been a priority lately. He'd been so uptight, so disturbed by all that was going on around him, he hadn't even jacked off! If someone would've told him two weeks ago that he would go days without touching his dick, he'd have proclaimed them insane. But that's just what had happened, and, to his surprise, he hadn't even had a wet dream either. His main priority now was survival. Folding himself into a ball, the sad account of his incarceration played out in his mind for the hundredth time...


After the police had abducted him, running away from Sean's place, they'd taken him to the local police station. Following a strenuous, all night grilling by the police, he'd then been placed under arrest for breaking and entering, assault and battery and petty theft. All attempts to justify his claims to the contrary had been dismissed by the police, the men leery of his story from the beginning.

His hearing hadn't gone much better. The judge hadn't looked too favorably on a 16 year old inner-city boy, breaking into a man's house, beating him senseless, and stealing his valuables. Keone's mouth had dropped open wide enough to drive a truck through when he'd heard the charges. Sean had aptly played the poor helpless victim, arriving at the courthouse, bandaged, and in a wheelchair, his face swollen and red. On a table directly before the judge was a convicting display of goods Keone had lifted in his anger. Anger which he felt was fully justified at the time! He still hadn't processed his feelings around participating in sex with a male, his anger still too much of a factor to ignore. But when he'd heard Sean's lawyer recount the bogus version of the fateful night's events, he was so dumbfounded he blurted out,


The judge quickly admonished his lawyer to keep him quiet or they'd escort him from the building. When his lawyer cautioned him to comply, he complained,

"But he's lying!"

"Young man, one more outburst from you like that, and you'll not see the rest of these proceedings, do you understand?" the huffy judge declared.

Flummoxed, Keone just nodded his head. Once the prosecution lawyer had leveled his deadly, albeit false, accusations, it was all down hill from there.

Like it was yesterday, Keone saw himself, handcuffed, the guards leading him from the courthouse and depositing into a waiting van. The van was packed with teenaged boys all awaiting their fate, some stone-faced, resolved to show no fear, no weakness. But others looked as frightened as he imagined he was, although he fought valiantly to conceal his feelings, too. The van traveled for over an hour away from the city, Keone's despair escalating the further they journeyed. At the facility each youth was separately processed through an arduous admission procedure. After waiting around for what seemed an eternity, he was finally turned over to two huge, corn-fed guards for his admission routine.

"Name?" the biggest one grunted.

"Keone Hardeman."


"16. Man can you take these cuffs off?"

"Not yet. How much you weigh?"

"127. Why you have to know all this?"

"Part of the requirements, so shut the fuck up," the other guard snapped. Keone eyed the fat faced man, furious.

"You don't want to start off making trouble for yo'self, youngblood," the first guard cautioned. Keone backed off, discerning that making trouble with these men could, no doubt, lead to bigger problems for his stay.

"How tall are you?" he droned.

"I dunno, 'bout 5'6, I guess, " Keone guestimated.

"Next of kin?"


"Next of kin?"

"Yes, closest relative."

"Oh! My mom's."

"What's mom's name?"

"Umm… Why you need my mom's name?"

"For identification purposes. In case you're injured, or something."


Injured or something! Keone thought. They trying to say in case I get killed. His precious freedom further infringed, Keone offered a silent prayer he'd soon get out of this place.

"What's your mother's name, son?" the second guard repeated.

"Renae Hardeman."

"We'll need you to fill out this card with your address, phone number and other personal information later, alright?"


Standing, the second guard approached Keone, looking down at him, his jaw set.

"Alright son, we've gotten to the part everybody has to undergo, like it or not. We've had some boys act a real fool on this part, so we always take a minute to explain what's going on first. That way we make it easier for you and for us, alright?" Keone nodded, observing the man cautiously, unnerved by how close he was standing to him. What was he talking about?

"We're going to uncuff you and ask you to remove all your clothing. We'll take them for safe keeping till you're released. You'll be issued a set of prison clothing and a fresh set will be given you every other day, or so. But what we need to do now is a strip search where we check all cavities for contraband, and then we have you take a shower for hygiene purposes. This ain't negotiable so that's why we explain it to you up front. If you don't cooperate, we'll be left with no alternative than to use force at which time you will be restrained, sedated, searched and sent to the infirmary. So one way or the other, you're goin to be searched, it's up to you how, got it?"

Keone could only shake his head. Things couldn't get any worse. Not only were the Twin Towers talking about taking his only remaining possessions, they were talking about diggin' in his ass on top of that! Resigned to the inevitable, Keone stood quietly as they removed his handcuffs. The two men stood back waiting as if he'd been hired to perform a strip show for them. Keone looked from the one to the other, sizing them up. He imagined he could probably give them a struggle, but what good would that do? They'd already told him he would be restrained and sedated anyway. No doubt other guards would be called to hold his struggling ass until some sadistic doctor had pumped it full of drugs strong enough to knock him out. The thought of these two 'circus elephants' having free course with his naked body disturbed him enough to submit and give them their two-bit strip show.

Removing his shirt, he bent over to untie his sneakers even though he could have slipped his feet out of them tied. Kicking them off he stood and said,

"The socks too?"

The guards just nodded, while Keone strained to hear any signs of their sex-laden wheezing. Bending over, he pulled his socks off, his bare feet uncomfortable against the cold floor. Looking down he saw that he was still wearing the fated, yellow shorts. Unfastening them, he let them drop to the floor, stepping out of them. He couldn't believe he was being forced to strip before two total strangers. Wondering if these perverts were liking this, he slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, yanking them down angrily.

The first guard stepped up to Keone and requested,

"Open your mouth, please." Keone clenched his teeth, reluctant to comply, then opened his mouth. The guard probed his mouth with a gloved hand, leaving a chalky, rubber taste on his tongue. Satisfied, the guard started pawing over his naked body. Why, he couldn't imagine? What the hell could they find by fondling him that they couldn't see with their own eyes? Lifting his arms, the guard ran his fingers through his the sparse growth of hair there, Keone shuddering from the contact. Reaching between his legs, the man gripped his balls, manipulating them on his fingertips. Oh, homey is enjoying this, Keone thought. Probably bustin' a nut in his uniform!

"Spread your legs please."

Indignant, Keone parted his feet and squatted slightly, allowing the man full access to his nether regions. Moving past his balls the man felt around the crevice between his legs, inches away from his asshole. Moving forward he gave a gentle tug on his balls again. See… that was deliberate, Keone thought. Gripping his dick which, by the way, was moments from getting hard, the man pulled his foreskin back inspecting the area around the head of his dick. Keone was amazed at how thorough the examination was. They just a bunch of perverts, gettin they jollies off, Keone resolved.

Releasing his dick, the man instructed,

"Ok, son. You're doing very good. Almost through. Now… need you to bend over and grip your ankles, alright?"


This is it. They 'bout to get lost up in my ass, now! Incensed, Keone obeyed, bending over, gripping his ankles in his hands, and closing his eyes. He heard the snapping of a new pair of gloves being pulled on behind him, then,

"Get me the lubricant, Sam" the man said, nonchalantly. Guess he does this all the time, Keone concluded, blood rushing to his head. Holding his breath, he felt the second guard pull his asscheeks apart. Then he felt the cold, slimy gel being slathered all over his wide splayed asshole and soon after that, the man's pudgy finger ramming up his ass.

"Owww!" Keone yelped, clenching down.
"Don't clamp down son, it'll make it worse, and you'll be all sore tomorrow."

"But it hurts!"

"It won't take but a minute if you just relax."

Keone concentrated on relaxing his drum tight ass muscles, the unexpected invasion of the man's finger more painful than he'd anticipated. The man didn't wait, however, his finger probing deeper and deeper inside his anal cavity. Keone yelped again, but the man kept ramming. Finally, the man extracted his finger, and Keone snapped erect, disgusted. He looked over his shoulder to see the man was showing his finger to his partner. They chuckled as they observed a tiny smattering of shit on his gloved finger. Keone was devastated.

"Follow me," the second guard commanded. The boy was lead into a shower area where he observed that none of the stalls had doors. Doesn't allow for much privacy, Keone imagined. Stopping at the first stall, the man handed Keone a bar of soap.

"Need you to scrub up real good, alright?"

"Yeah," Keone sulked, taking the soap. Turning the water on, he tried to wait until it warmed up some, but the man insisted he go ahead. Stepping under the tepid water, he lathered  his body, vigorously scrubbing his ass in an attempt to remove all traces of the lube.

"Pull that foreskin back and wash yo dick real good, too." Looking up, Keone thought, you cain't like his job? How could he enjoy watching teenage boys shower everyday and having to tell them to pull their foreskins back and wash their dicks? It had to be a thankless job. Complying, Keone skinned his foreskin back and lathered up his exposed glans, the harsh soap stinging it. Quickly he rinsed it off, but knew it would be burning and irritated the rest of the day. When he finished the man handed him a towel, and actually stood there until he'd dried off, like he was 5 years old or something.

Walking through the showers naked just didn't feel the same as when he'd done it in his home. He couldn't wait until they got him back to the little office and gave him a set of prison blues. They weren't really blue; in actuality they were a dingy pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He had his option of thongs, or black leather shoes, neither which appealed to Keone. Deciding he didn't like the big clunky leather shoes, he took the flimsy pair of thongs, blue of course. In addition, when they handed him his underwear he was appalled to find they only had briefs. He hadn't worn briefs since his Power Ranger days! He was further disappointed to find they wouldn't let him wear the thongs without socks. It took a good while for him to get used to his toes being mashed by the confining socks pulled between them. Besides, the flip flops were always slipping off his feet at the most inconvenient times.


The incessant replay of his incarceration making him weary, Keone drifted into unconsciousness, the melee about him fading away.



Being rushed through an unjust hearing, enduring the humiliating examination and having to wear the awkward prison clothing was only the tip of the iceberg, Keone soon discovered. Nothing in his short life could've prepared him for the harsh reality of incarceration in a juvenile detention center. The fates were not smiling on the boy when they'd assigned him to Forester. Miles away from the city in an isolated patch of the California desert, the detention center was an old, overcrowded, perpetually hot, facility with understaffed and overworked personnel.

The structure was comprised of thirty dorm rooms, each of which was overflowing with unfortunate boys awaiting their destiny in the court system. The rooms were originally designed to accommodate approximately 5-8 boys, but each room now carried a minimum of 10. Bunk beds had long since replaced the single cots used years ago, the fortunate boy getting the bottom bunk. Because the center was so overcrowded, violence, allegiances and factions ran rampant. Whole sections of the building were divided among self-appointed leaders, vying for control. In addition, because of the infighting among the inmate population, the rooms were segregated by race.

Keone's room was filled to capacity with a veritable cornucopia of Black boys ranging from ages 14 to 19. In his short time confined at Forester, Keone had come to realize that power was the lifeblood of the place. In Forester, you either had it and the distinction it could bring, or you didn't. Unlike his neighborhood, however, belonging to a gang or not, wasn't an option. Here, the competing parties eventually demanded your loyalty to one group or the other.

In the wing Keone had been assigned to, the reigning tyrant was one Malik Seamons. A two-bit thug, the boy had, through sheer subterfuge, clawed his way to the top. At 17, he was doing a 2 year term for theft and drug trafficking. The first thing you noticed about Malik was his mouth. It never stopped. If he wasn't conning a rival out of some possession, he was dictating mandates to his timid subjects. Fortunately, Keone had not been assigned to his room, the terror of the boy's reign, nevertheless, a force to reckon with. When word of Keone's admission reached him, Malik made special arrangements to get seating with him at dinner. Sitting across from him, his lackeys in tow, the tyrant began his subtle interrogation.

"Check out the 'fresh meat', Markus," he started. Staring at Keone, he queried, "When you check in, B?"

"Yesterday," Keone snapped.

"OOHHHH! Li'l man got big balls hangin 'tween his legs, huh?" Malik rallied, playing it up to his audience. The others snickered.

"A'ight big balls, what you in fo'?"

"Assault and battery."

"Li'l bitch like you beatin' up on somebody? He musta been a fag, man!" Laughter echoed around the table again.

"Yo! Daniel, give me yo piece of meat, nigga!" Keone watched as a boy close to his age reached into his plate, picked up his small portion of processed chicken, and handed it over to Malik.

"Gimme that roll, too," Malik dictated, snatching the boy's roll. The boy was clearly demonstrating a show of power for his benefit. Keone stared at his plate, pushing his food around idly, his head never raising to meet the other boys eyes.

Returning to Keone, Malik stated, "Yo, pint size, I came over here to talk to you 'bout one thing and one thing only. Who you wit', nigga?"

It was that damnable question again. Even within the walls of this distant detention center, he was helpless to evade it. Silently praying he could just disappear, Keone said nothing.

"Yeah, just what I thought, bitch! Yo ass tryin ta talk all hard, you ain't got nothin. I outta shank yo li'l ass right here, tryin to come at me."

"Stick 'em, Malik," Daniel said.

"Shut the fuck up Daniel!"

His attention back on Keone, he continued. "Listen, shorty, you's in Forester now, and I'm sure dat's a long way from yo li'l neck of the woods. Point is, in here, you don't get to choose who you bangin' with. WE decide fo' you, get it?"

"See… what you ain't knowin', bitch, is that yo shit's already been peeped. The 411 is that yo' skanchy ass was picked up by the police 'cause you was letting some sick motha fucka swing on yo' dick."

"Damnnn, look at that niggas eyes, Malik," one of the boys exclaimed.

"Yeah, he ain't knowing that word on the street travels faster than he do."

La Vel was right!

"Ain't goin be nobody suckin his stanky dick in here, though," the boy called Markus added.

"Word. Matta fact, B, you needs ta get yo ass with somebody in here if you intend to keep it."

Snickering all around, again.

"See, either you wit me and my boys, C-block ganstas, or you goin get wit somebody else and they weak gang, 'cause, if you don't, yo ass goin get to'e up so many times, you'll be shitting blood, know wha I'm saying?"

Keone remained quiet.

"This bitch done got quiet, now, huh Markus?"

"His ass scared."

" 'Sright, fool, better recognize! Thinkin his ass sumpin 'cause he got his dick sucked. Show it to 'em Twon."

Suddenly the boy seated next to Keone produced a homemade knife with a blade long enough to do great harm. Placing it at Keone's ribs, he applied enough pressure to cause a pinprick in the boy's side.

"See, this is C-block, bitch!" Malik snarled, inching closer to Keone. "We could split you open right now. Only thing the guards could do is carry yo' bleeding ass out to the graveyard, nigga!!"

Everything in him was screaming for a guard to notice what was happening, but Keone wisely abstained from looking around for one.

"NOW!" Malik spat, reveling in his little tour de force, "I ain't goin wait long fo' you to make up yo' stupid mind, 'cause, you take too long, next time you see us, we coming ta beat yo' ass down, then bust it wide open, know wha I'm saying?"

The knife at his ribs, Keone readily agreed to the boy's terms. Looking around to make sure none of the guards were near, Malik then said,

"Donte, feel that nigga up, tell me how much he got."

While the boy to his left continued holding the knife to his ribs, the one to his right dutifully obey Malik's orders, subtly moving his hand under the table and inside Keone's jeans. Keone sat frozen as the boy roughly pushed his hand under the band of his briefs and found his dick. Grasping it, the boy examined the length of it, reporting back to Malik,

"Li'l nigga got a pretty nice sized dick."

"Yeah, how big?"

Running his hand from the head to the base of Keone's hardening dick, he said,

"'Bout good 4-5 inches. Nigga ain't been cut neither. Got a old sloppy, wet head under that skin."

The boy was practically stroking Keone's dick, now. It had been so long since Keone had stroked his own dick, it leaped hard almost instantly. Keone became very concerned that if the boy kept fondling his dick it would spurt all over his hand.

"Li'l nigga need ta wash that stanky shit." Another round of chuckling.

"It's getting hard, ain't it?" Malik taunted, his eyes looking through Keone. The boy feeling his dick nodded, causing a leer to break out on Malik's face. Picking up his roll, he broke off a piece and tossed it in his mouth.

"Y'all know how it was when you first got here, all scared and shit," he continued, his eyes never leaving Keone's. "Couldn't bust a nut till somebody was takin yo ass," he taunted, a hearty laugh circling around the table. Just as Keone was sure he would erupt all over the boy's hand Malik said,

"That's 'nough Donte. Don't be trying to cop a free nut off the 'fresh meat'." The boy reluctantly removed his hand from Keone's pants, leaving him exhausted.

"A'ight lightweight, like I said, get yo ass in gear and get wit the program. And make it quick, 'cause cute ass nigga like you ain't goin last long 'round here, anyway." Extending his hand, he caressed his face suggestively.

Repulsed, Keone foolishly turned his head away. That was when he was reminded that the knife was still against his vulnerable ribs, the boy poking him slightly. Keone yelped, more out of fear than pain.

"A'ight, Twon, let 'em go."

The boy finally removed the blade from his ribs, Keone exhaling a deep sigh of relief. Malik stood, his henchmen rising unanimously with him, and left. Frightened and grateful he was still alive, Keone drew large gulps of air, looking around to see if anyone had seen what just happened. Boys were eating and talking as if nothing had happened, this being an everyday thing to them.


After his confrontation with Malik, Keone became even more distressed. His sleep was fretful, filled with nightmares featuring his early demise. Going about his assigned duties, the boy frantically sought a way out of his impending doom. There were other gangs within the center, but Keone figured his fate would be just as bleak with them as with Malik. There had to be another way to avoid joining a prison gang and delivering his virgin ass up to a cache of horny teenage boys, but he couldn't think of one… until he met Jerrell.

To be continued...