Copyright 2011, 2012 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, “In His Father's House” is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at

In addition to numerous articles on the problems faced by juveniles incarcerated in adult prisons - especially those sentenced to life sentences without the possibility of parole - the author is especially indebted to three books: Santos, Michael G., Inside, Life Behind Bars in America (New York: St. Martin's Griffin edition, 2007); Parsell T. J., Fish, A Memoir of a Boy in a Man's Prison (Cambridge, MA; Da Capo Press, 2006); and Gagnon, Robert J. 053803, Life at Fifteen, updated ed. (Np; Robert J. Gagnon-Paperback, 2006). Echoes of each will be heard in my story that follows.

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, please respect yourself and those around you by practicing safe sex.


(Revisiting Chapter 3)

". . . It's a lot of work to get along in this place, at least for me. Lately, most of my energy is going into dreaming about him...and what we could do together...and jacking off...five or six times a day, on a light day. I can't keep it up, Dad! Even though the alternatives are scary, it's driving me nuts! I could show him what I feel, but chances are he's not going to like it. That's likely to tell him and others that I'm gay. And, Dad, they don't seem to like queers very much in these parts. What can I do?"

(Continuing Our Story: The Turning Tide)

"Well, my boy, you've already made a solid start," Kent replied in a reassuring tone of voice. "You've admitted to yourself that you're gay. You haven't romanticized it; you haven't demonized it. It's just a fact about your hair...or the size of your feet." (Despite his good intentions, Foster grinned.) "And this has already had a payoff for you," he continued. "Huh?" Jeb interjected. (Kent realized that the teen's tone was incredulous, but at least he had interrupted his negativism!) "One of ours has struck your interest?" he asked. "Yeah," Jeb responded, trying hard not to give anything away. Simply by way of keeping the conversation going, Kent responded, "Bet I can guess." Curious, the sixteen year old quickly surrendered the point, saying, "Yeah, it's Chaz." "But like I said," the lad added, "chances are he wouldn't like my letting him know I was interested." (Long Pause.) With a sidewise glance that didn't quite meet Kent's eyes, he grunted, "How'd you know it was Chaz?"

Kent had clearly fed the youngster enough line. Now he would take a crack at reeling him in. "Wasn't he the guy who presented you with your necklace? And wasn't it his soap that the guys used to really clean you up in the shower? I guess I could add that I've seen him pounding your upper arm on several occasions, but that I guess that doesn't really count. You're a pretty popular guy, Jeb, and many of the boys here want to be your friend. Are you sure that Chaz wouldn't like your telling him that you want to be his special friend? He'll pick up on the sexual invitation...if he's interested. If not, my dear Jeb, there are other fish in the sea!" Jeb grinned...uncomfortably...and changed the subject.

For a few days, nothing more was said, though Foster, knowing teenagers and having provided the advice requested, had retreated from an active to a more passively observing role. Not too many days passed, however, before it was obvious that the two youngsters were together more often than they were apart. For instance, they were in the exercise room everyday - sometimes more than once a day. Kent also noticed that the blond carefully watched what he was eating, including a goodly number of "food supplements". (Despite Herculean efforts by state corrections personnel, it does appear that nearly any pill could be had in prison if one had the money, the power, and the will.) Not too many months of Jeb's sixteenth year passed before the results were becoming apparent to all. That is, he gradually changed from being a handsome, well-built mid teen to a young man with a truly spectacular physique! (Standing at 5'9½", he now weighed in at 169 lb.) That fact coupled with progress in solving his most pressing psychological question got Jeb moving forward again. It did, of course, increase the interest of predators, but Ken was there and he was rarely out of touch with his buddies.

Once energy was available for something more than introspection, Jeb's curious mind opened to the constant ebb and flow of life in a maximum security prison. One night, for instance, he spoke with Kent Foster about the tension and violence that colored every aspect of prison life. "Come on, sir!" he sputtered. "The prisoners are not the only ones who make a hell out of this place! Look at the cages we pass every day on the way to the chow hall. Remember that con we saw earlier today who had been stripped, hogtied, and stuffed into a cage big enough for little more than a canary! Or how about the guard who stood watching a giant of a guy absolutely destroy a con who was less than half his size? He wasn't about to lift a finger until he saw a supervisor coming! Not that the constant shakedowns and lockdowns lessen the tension in this place."

"I suspect human beings learn how to handle problems, Jeb," Kent observed. "A few learn to turn to reason. Historically, I fear, the majority of humanity has learned to turn to force - unless some scientists are right and it's in our genes. Unfortunately, even if necessary and even unavoidable on rare occasion, force is a thousand times more addictive than crack (i.e., crack-cocaine). Surrounded by prison death and violence, guards, no less than cons, fear for their lives. Their addiction cuts in. Forcefully punishing anything that questions their absolute authority and constantly searching for the weapons that can kill them, they only feed the cycle of violence." (Pause.) "I ought to know, youngster. Look at what I do for a living!" The blond-haired one merely grunted, mumbled that he wanted something...different, turned over, and went to sleep.

The next morning in the shower nearly saw blood being spilled. The guard was on his cell phone, evidently deep in a conversation with one of his infatuations. A new fish - Hispanic, early 20s, who had arrived only days before - sidled up to Jeb. Partially concealed by his own body, as well as by the generally steamy scene in the shower, he quickly moved his hand from Jeb's lower back onto his muscular cheeks. In a manner that he apparently thought was seductive, his lips barely moved as he whispered, "Hey, ese, lookin' good...real good. Anytime..." As he turned, he noticed three or four older Hispanics some distance away who were (unsuccessfully) trying to look uninvolved. Turning further, he saw Popeye and Mase quickly heading for him. Without turning around fully to confront the guy - who still had a hand on his ass - he growled, "Not interested...holmes. Do you know that you're about two seconds from starting a riot?" The guy jerked his hand away from Jeb's rump and disappeared into the fog and the swirling bodies. (Later that morning, Kent Foster let him know that he'd been approached by one of the Mexican chiefs with whom he had had earlier dealings. In a half apology, he suggested that the kid didn't know - then - what he was playing with and simply said that it wouldn't happen again. Kent said that he had simply accepted his words and suggested that they simply let it go at that. Rather wondering what it would take to keep the young lad alive, he looked up, smirked, and jokingly asked, "Tryin' for a non-violent alternative...gringo?" Jeb snorted and headed for the exercise room where he managed to enjoy a quickie with Chaz!

(Settling Down to the Rest of His Life)

The rest of Jeb Taylor's sixteenth year - and well into his seventeenth - didn't see problems emerge that were substantively different from those hitherto described. He only got into one fracas with a guy who was just suffering from a combination of cabin fever, stupidity, and far too much testosterone. Worse, he was apparently determined to feel better by punching someone's (more accurately, anyone's) lights out. Jeb showed that he had absorbed something from those around him. Specifically, when thrown back on his heels by the ferocity of the "wannabe thug's" attack, he turned into an absolute tiger...a whirling dervish who put the tattooed hulk on his ass in less than two minutes! There was common agreement among the whites that he had done nothing more than he had to do. "Warn me not to get you mad at me," Chaz wheezed as they finished an exercise session later that day. "I got a look at your face as you butted his front teeth in, and I didn't recognize you! Man...scary..."

That night after they had been counted, the cells had been locked down, and the guard had passed their darkened cell on his first round, Jeb continued talking with Kent. "Sad thing, Kent. That fight today meant a great deal more to the guys around me than it did to me. I've got some changes to make if I'm going to live in this place for another fifty or sixty years. Damn! Guys make a few friends...or join a gang, kinda fall into a few things that they like to do, and then spend the rest of their time on automatic. The main things that happen in their lives happen only because somebody else pushes their buttons. You don't have to think. In fact, it's pretty obvious that the prison doesn't want you to think...or to react in ways that aren't detailed in the regulations. Just obey... mindlessly...and watch the days pass by. Oh, yeah, and blame the state or the warden or the guards or, maybe, other cons for everything that's wrong with you. I can't live like that. I'm going to set some goals - maybe for one or two years periods - and then figure out how I can meet them. I sure as hell don't expect the System to help. It's pretty clear that they want all power to stay in their hands. If a prisoner rocks the boat, he's dead meat. I know I'm saddled with a no-parole life sentence, but, Kent, that doesn't mean I'm dead. I want to keep growing... keep living. Maybe I'll try for a college education. (Pause.) There's also got to be some kind of contribution to others. I mean...I owe society and I owe those around me. Don't I still have the obligation to leave things a little better than I found them? Does any of that make any sense, Kent - or am I just letting myself in for more grief?

Sounding as if he were thoroughly out of it, Foster answered, "It won't be easy, Jeb, but it makes a lot of sense - maybe the only sense open to us. Forgive me, but I feel pretty lousy. Ok if we continue this conversation later?" Naturally, the teen said that was fine and quickly fell asleep. Around two-thirty or three in the morning, however, he was awakened by his cellmate. "Jeb, I seem to be having something of a panic attack," Kent gasped. "Nothing seems wrong physically, but I'm just about ready to climb out of my skin...almost like I've got the DTs. Got anything that will help calm me down?"

Jeb swung down from the top bunk to the floor. For a few seconds the night lights in that part of the prison cast ghostly shadows through the bars onto his perfectly muscled naked body. Then he quietly moved onto Kent's bunk. His white-haired mentor was dripping wet, he felt hot, and his heart was beating off the scale. Raising a hand and weakly caressing the boy's face, Foster whispered that he would be ok. Could Jeb simply hold him for a few minutes? The youth did that and more. Feeling a rush of affection as he lay against the wall at the back edge of the narrow bunk, he embraced the older man who had given him so much. Lovingly, he wiped the sweat from his body and whispered his gratitude for all he had done...all that he meant to his life. When Kent seemed to begin recovering after about an hour, he began kissing him. To his mentor's sighs of deep pleasure, he finally reached his genitals and gave him a gentle, loving blowjob. Neither man knew anything more until rousted out of his bunk by the morning buzzers. Shortly thereafter, Kent Foster was knifed as he was being marched in a line of prisoners towards breakfast. He never regained consciousness.

(Shock and Awe)

As news of the latest atrocity spread throughout the prison, the noise level - always elevated - rose exponentially. Almost immediately, the entire institution was placed on lockdown. Large cadres of guards, augmented by State Police fitted out in riot gear, were observed throughout the prison. Jeb, along with six other men of different races and ages, was marched under heavy guard to an isolated cell area, stripped, searched down to his toenails, and placed in an old cell that had been totally cleared. Iron walls completely isolated him from the others. The cell remained lighted 24/7, no part of which was hidden from the view of multiple cameras. Turning to isometrics, the early seventeen year old exercised heavily and frequently, but the time passed slowly. (Only later did he learn that he had been placed under "protective custody".)

Late on that which was perhaps the eighth day, Jeb was removed from the isolation cell, allowed to shower and dress in clean prison clothes, and escorted to the Warden's office. Prison scuttlebutt had it that Warden O'Mara was about as cold, cruel, and terrifying a human being as ever existed. A few of the educated inmates compared him to Dracula, the bloodthirsty 15th century Transylvanian prince, but Jeb had no way of understanding that reference. Though he couldn't see the Warden as a latter-day "Impaler", he did immediately raise his guard.

"Taylor," the Warden began. While not friendly, his tone of voice was at least businesslike. "There have been developments in your case. Within a few days, you are to appear in Superior Court in the State Capital where our Attorney General and an attorney representing your interests will explain what's going on. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to say more. In the meantime, I regret that I am unable to return you to the general prison population. It is in your best interests to remain in protective custody." (Sarcastically, Jeb thought that he was always relieved to hear that Halstead State Prison was concerned about his best interests!) "I am, however, ordering that your ration be increased and, if you wish, I am willing to allow another inmate to share your cell." Smirking, he asked in a far less pleasant tone of voice, "Chaz Moulsen?" (For nearly three days, several guards paid big bucks to be assigned to the surveillance monitors for that cell! Rumor had it that the money paid to other guards was worth every penny - and more!) Jeb? After all he had gone through, he just didn't give a damn!

At the County jail that held prisoners slated to appear in Superior Court, a public defender provided new (civilian) clothes to Jeb, but pleaded no knowledge of what was going on. In court, the state's Attorney General: (1) announced that the Supreme Court had decided that sentencing a juvenile to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole was unconstitutional. (2) Further, he accepted a deathbed confession by Bart Simms Junior that he, and not Jeb, had murdered his younger brother, Bo. (See Chapter 1.) (3) Finally, a crusading D.A. in Jeb's home county had identified several serious errors in his trial, plus instances of criminal conspiracy. In the interest of justice, the Attorney General asked the judge to declare his conviction null and void. Those responsible for the errors that rose to the level of felonies (the County sheriff, an assistant D.A., two jurors, and one unnamed conspirator) were even then being brought to justice.

The judge asked Jeb to rise, joined in the Supreme Court's condemnation of sentencing juveniles to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole and, in light of new evidence and the Attorney General's pleading, overturned his murder conviction. He then manfully apologized to Jeb for the outrages he had suffered during the past three years. "Lady Justice is usually portrayed as being blind, Mr. Taylor," he said informally. "I think this means, among other things, that she can make mistakes, as she surely did in this instance.

"Nevertheless, I tend to agree with the Gold Star States Attorney on several counts. Legally, you are still a juvenile. Given the fact that a young child was savagely murdered, a wound still bleeding in the community, it does not seem unreasonable that I require you be released to one or more adult members of your family. I recognize that there are problems in this regard. Hence, I am assigning temporary custody to a representative of this County's social services. I require that this matter be speedily resolved and that Social Services report directly to me."

(To Be Continued)