Charles the Cuck 1
Charles is a wealthy businessman, sent to prison for a crime he didn't commit, so he must make a deal with the biggest man in the yard in order to ensure he can see his wife again on the outside.
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Charles stands before many people, dressed nicely, just like he would for any other meeting. Next to him, his long-time friend supports him by standing tall, her eyes focused ahead.
She told him, “Today, you will make the most important deal in your career.”
The stern older gentleman sits high on the podium, his fingers laced, his judgmental gaze piercing behind his thick glasses. “So, for the crimes you are accused of, how do you plea?”
Charles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trembling.
“Guilty, your honor.”
A sharp gasp cuts through the crowd, and as the officers escort him past the court, Charles glances over toward the source of the sound.
His beautiful wife, Alda, stands as he passes by with her hand extended. He could recognize her châtain hair and those sorrowful eyes—brown with specks of green. He smiles at her and nods. “I’ll… I’ll be okay,” he says to her.
“I’ll do everything I can to make sure you are!” she says, reaching out to him, but the officers yank him away, taking him from his home, his business, and his loving wife.
* * *
The bars slam shut, and the business suit is swapped with a prisoner’s uniform, and his name is replaced with a number. Orientation was quick, but the whole air was oppressive and heavy, and when he finally sat on his bunk, his cellmate poked his head out.
“So, buddy, what are you in for?” says the thin, tattooed man.
Charles laughs ruefully, gripping his pant legs. “Of all things… sexual assault.”
His cellmate whistles. “Whoa, you must be hardcore, huh, buddy?”
“I’m innocent!” Charles’s hands quiver, “But the evidence was stacked against me! It must have been the work of some malefactor against me wanting to take my business!”
His cellie sighs. “Man, you’re not going to survive in here if you’re gonna be so soft like that. You gotta harden up, or you’ll be someone’s bitch by the end of the week.”
Charles blinks and then leaps up, grabbing the edge of his cellmate’s bed. “I can’t—I need to survive in here! I can help you on the outside if you help me on the inside!”
His cellmate chuckles. “That so? Yeah, I think I can help. Enjoy your first day. We’ll meet the boss tomorrow.”
“T… The boss?”
* * *
Charles had to wait all night. His sleep was restless and filled with thoughts of his excellent and beautiful Alda. He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and sighed. “Anything to live so I can see her again,” he said.”
When the time finally comes, Charles’s cellmate takes him to the yard, where a few people are working out in the gym area. So many strong people are tattooed up and have scars and muscles. Never before did Charles feel so inadequate and doughy as he rubbed his arm. But with each person they pass, he wonders how bad the boss must be.
They leave the weights behind. Beyond them is a set of bleachers. Sitting on the bleachers is a large man, broad and tall, with muscles evident even under his uniform. He reads through a book with glasses scuffed up and blurry but glances up with piercing black eyes as he sees the two approaching.
Charles gulps in the man’s shadow, but his cellmate steps up and motions to Charles.
“Fresh meat for you, Oh Mister James.”
“That so?” Mister James asks, marking his book with an earmark and putting his glasses in his pocket. He stands up, walking off of the bleachers, and Charles steps back when he realizes that the man is still towering over him even on even footing,
“And you’re the big bad businessman who got a little too handsy with his secretary.”
Charles chirps up, “I was set up.”
“Sure we were, and so was I,” Mister James says. “When that pig beat my brother to death, and I took it out on the fucker who got him, I was framed too.” He drapes his large arm over Charles’s shoulder, pulling him in close. “I’m a lifer with no chance of parole but all the chance to stimulate my mind. What the fuck do you think you can give me that will be worth my time protecting you?”
“Please, Mister James, I can do anything. I could give you lawyers or connections on the outside or something.”
Mister James tuts and pushes Charles away. “You don’t get it, White Bread. There are ways things work around here, and it’s different from the outside. Best find something to give me, or else you ain’t livin’ to see your business again.”
Charles falls at James’s feet. “Please, Mister James! I’ll do anything! I have to survive my stint in prison so I can see my wife again!”
James whistles. “Wife, huh? What kind of woman a whitebread stuffed shirt like you get, huh? Tell me about her.”
Charles gulps. “U-uh, oh-well, she’s a Project Manager, and she’s from France.”
James spins around, hands on his hips, running a hand through his tightly curled hair. “Numbers, Whitebread, numbers! Height, weight, Measurements.”
Charles gulped… “I… I don’t.”
James looks over his shoulder, “You said you’d do anything.”
Charles lowers his head, gripping the dirt. “Sh… she’s 175 cm… 63 kilos.”
“How about her tits?”
Charles sniffles at that. “32 C.”
“Damn…” James says, stroking his goatee. “Maybe we can do something after all.” He snaps his fingers, and another inn mate pulls a phone from his pocket, tossing it to James. “Alright, Whitebread. Here’s how it’s gonna go. You’re going to call your hot-ass French white bitch, and you’re going to tell her that if she wants you to have a cushy time living in the Penn, she’s going to have to pay.”
“P… Pay?” Charles says, his eyes watering.
“Sure,” James says, his smile wide. “She’s gonna have to pay me with her tits and her ass and her whole body.” He holds out the phone to Charles, and he nods. “You did say you’d do anything. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Charles reels at the words he hears. His voice caught in his throat. He can’t respond right away to the intimidating leader of the prison population.
“What’s the matter, Whitebread?” James asks, shaking the phone in front of Charles’s face. “It ain’t no big deal. Just tell her that I want to see the goods.”
“Suh-see?” Charles blinks, his mind snapping back to reality.
“Sure,” James says, his smile bright. “What the fuck else can I do in here, huh? A few sexy pics ain’t gonna hurt no one.”
“Muh… maybe you’re right,” Charles says, so he takes the phone, gulping, and puts in his wife’s number.