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1.

It amazes me how the last two months could feel like such a blur. Especially in a monotonous place like jail.

Two months in this ten by ten room, for twenty-two hours a day (not counting my occasional trips to the the adjacent courthouse). I guess spending enough time here can warp your perspective on the passage of time.

I looked into the square of polished metal, bolted to the wall, that served as my mirror. It took a moment to recognize that poor son of a bitch looking back. It was a gray-fox, but was it still Elliot Regal? My blue eyes were bloodshot. I don't think I've slept more than a couple hours at a stretch since the put me in here. And my fur, always a nice blend of salt, pepper and cinnamon, has started looking faded. Is that even possible? And I've started shedding! It's still the middle of winter. This stress is killing me.

Still staring deeply and vacantly into the eyes of that stranger, I started to feel myself drift back. That's been happening a lot, but given my circumstances, I welcome a little mental escapism.

***

There I am. Just hanging out with some "friends" on an overpass. Just watching the endless stream of New Abilon's employed masses making their way back from the nine to five purgatory. I pitied them. I'm a free spirit, an artist. Those sad furs were drones... zombies. I felt so sorry for them.

Well, that's what I thought that I thought. The State made a rather convincing case that I felt malice and envy towards them. They really made a good argument. Hell, now I'm not so sure. I just might hate those yuppie bastards.

Anyway, we were just hanging around...ok, maybe some of us were spitting off the bridge, but that's not really important is it? Like I was saying, it was Sydney, this asshole red-fox that was one of my roommates (or "fellow squatters" as the prosecution would put it). He was the one who brought the bottle of drain cleaner and roll of aluminum foil. But do you think the jury cared about that? Nooo. All they cared about was the grainy CCTV footage of me mixing the stuff in a water bottle and tossing it onto the never ending metal millipede.

When the media gets a hold of a term like "drano-bomb" they don't let go. It was glorified noise maker, not a bomb. But because of the victim, I was fucked, regardless.

That part I remember, vividly. The screeching tires, the sound of breaking concrete and smashing glass, the smoke. That, I can never forget. It's everything since then that's become a decayed grindhouse film, with scenes missing.

The wolfess that died was a widow. Her dearly departed mate was a cop.

What eldritch abomination of an elder god did I piss off for that kind of luck?

Before they even hauled me in, I swear I could smell a bloodlust in the air. Way more live coverage than was warranted.

Because of the high profile nature of the case, I got this nice private cell in Protective Custody. I guess being kept out of general population is a blessing. My previous experiences with the justice system usually involved sleeping off a hangover in the crowded drunk tank. Hygiene is not a big priority with those furs.

*Clang*

I looked at the gunmetal iron door.

I ran my fingers through my hair. It was getting long. Normally I would wear it spiked but for some asinine reason they didn't let us have product behind bars. Hard not to look guilty when you come off looking like an extra in a zombie movie.

I straightened my orange jumpsuit as the door started opening. It hung a lot looser than when I first got it. Who can eat jail food?

"It's time, Regal," said the swarthy ferret.

I let him put the cuffs on me. The click of them locking put me on autopilot.

The last time I was in the courtroom the jury read out the verdict. I knew what it would be from the start. The trial was all about today, for me. The sentencing.

When this all started they wanted to give me a plea deal. Five years if I admitted to a slew of charges I didn't understand at the time. My public defender told me to take the deal. Fuck that noise! That was five years of my life they wanted. Five years.

I insisted on going to trial. I had to show them I wasn't a monster. It wasn't the way everyone said it was. It was an accident...

A hand slapped down on my shoulder, snapping me out of it. It was that guard, Wallace, or Walter, or something. I tried not to let this place become too real. If I didn't remain separate from it, I think I would have cracked.

"Take a last look," he waved to the window.

I was surprised we'd walked all the way to the skywalk that connected the city jail with the courthouse.

"You won't be seeing civilization for a loooong time, once they lock you up."

I got a narrow view of the New Abilon skyline. A forest of glass and steel spires. The tips were starting to catch the sun's rays in a way that lit the tallest buildings like a dozen light towers. That picturesque vista belied the true city. The city I lived in. I snorted derisively at the notion of there being "civilization" out there.

The ferret's palm connected with my shoulder blade. I stumbled forward a few steps, the cuffs jingled.

"Laugh it up, Regal. They're gonna looove you in the slammer."

What a douchebag.

***

I was brought in through the side door. The gallery was packed. All of them there to see me, Elliot Regal, reluctant rockstar. Thankfully cameras weren't allowed in the courtroom. Those would be waiting for me outside.

I made a quick scan of the back. In the beginning a few of my "friends" would be in attendance. Whether to give me moral support, or just watch the tragedy unfold, I'm not sure. I wasn't allowed to talk to them. They stopped coming after the first few days.

I promised myself, if I ever get out of this, I would track those sellouts down, especially Sydney, who disappeared the day of the crash, and make them regret abandoning me like this.

My lawyer was shuffling a stack of papers. I'm ninety percent sure they had nothing to do with my case. But that's ok, I knew public defenders were overworked, underpaid and inexperienced. I was placing my faith in my ability to reach the judge and convince her to be lenient.

My lawyer looked up when he heard the sound of my cuffs being taken off. He gave me a somber smile and motioned for me to sit.

"Whatever happens, we can appeal," he said to me.

That's my floppy eared mutt of a lawyer, Douglas Sharpe, always optimistic. I wanted to throw up.

Last time I was in here and the jury foreman read off the list of charges, proclaiming to the whole world what I was guilty of, I didn't blink. But today I was going to see just how well I and my half-assed legal counsel argued the mitigating circumstances. I could barely keep from shaking.

The intimidating bailiffs, standing closer than they could have, didn't help my nerves any. Like they thought I'd rush the judge or something. One look at my size and you'd see how absurd that was. I think, in a fair fight, the judge could kick my ass. Strength has never been one of my... strong suits.

I studied the grain of the table, trying to shut out the rest of the world. I had to clear my mind and think about what I would say.

Douglas put his hand on my arm to get my attention. I looked up. Everyone was standing. Shit. Guess I zoned out again.

I quickly stood. The judge, a middle aged red panda, was approaching the bench. The black robes made me think of a priestess, about to conduct a black mass. My legs seemed to have lost their bones.

We all sat and she began giving her opening remarks. Really playing it up for the press, who diligently typed, tapped and wrote every word and every perceived reaction from the main players.

I kept my head low. My ears followed my example. If I did have to appeal, I couldn't chance leaving any negative impressions.

Sharpe whispered in my ear. "I strongly advise against this."

I glanced at him. "I don't care." Someone had to stand up for me. And if my public defender wouldn't...

I scanned the gallery once more. This time looking in the front.

Damn. She wasn't here. Though that might have been a blessing. I mean, I really did want to apologize to the young wolfess, for causing her mother's death, but what could I say? Any words would just ring hollow and might have made the act look selfserving.

The judge read off the list of charges I'd been found guilty of, ending with the only one that really mattered, "-and having been found guilty of murder in the third degree, by a jury of your peers, we are here to pass sentence. Does the defense have any thing they would like to add before the sentence is handed down?"

Sharpe gave me a hard look and stood. "Uh, yes, your honor. My client wishes to make a statement."

She nodded to me. And like the witch cast a spell on me, I immediately rose.

"Thank you y-your honor," I hated the quaver in my voice. Maybe I should have written something down. I figured that speaking without notes might make it look more authentic.

"Saying what I did was a stupid prank that went horribly bad, would diminish just how stupid and tragic my actions were. For that, I am so sorry. I can never hope to gain the forgiveness of those that I hurt, or even to gain my own forgiveness. This is a burden I will always carry with me. If I'm locked away in prison, I will carry my guilty and burden with me, just as I always will. But in prison I won't be able to work off my debt to society in a meaningful way. I'm planning to dedicate my life to charitable pursuits, maybe to, one day, begin to undo even a fraction on the hurt that I've cause.

"Please, take that into consideration when you- the court, decide my fate." I sat back down, still feeling sick. I wish I could have cried, that would have been a nice touch.

The judge leaned forward, she seemed to talk directly to me, "Mister Elliot Regal, the court has taken all that into consideration. We've also taken into account the lack of remorse you've shown throughout the trial, the attempts to shift the blame, and your long record of vandalism and destruction of property."

Goddammit. I swallowed hard, in fear and anger. Only one news outlet called me a street-artist. And they said "alleged one time street-artist," like it was some unsubstantiated rumor. The others just called me a vandal. Damn them.

The judge began to read through the charges, starting with the petty crap the State tacked on just to make it look good. None of that mattered. Sharpe explained to me that all the sentences would be served concurrently, so the only one I was interested in was the murder wrap. Probation might have been a one in a million shot, but with a little luck, and a miracle, I could hope for parole after one year, with time served.

"-and for the crime of murder in the third degree, the court sentences you to no more than twenty years, with the possibility of parole in six." The gavel slammed repeatedly, attempting to silence the outburst of cheers I was only dimly aware of.

I looked over at Sharpe. He was already standing, speaking animatedly to the judge. I couldn't make out any of the words until he leaned in close.

"I'll file the appeal. Just stay calm and don't make any waves," he spoke like he was underwater. Or maybe like I was underwater.

The guards were already dragging me to my feet. I doubted what had just happened. It had to be a mistake.

Sharpe looked at his piles of paper. "I'll try to get out to see you next week..." he looked at the papers again, "maybe... thursday."

Today was wednesday. That was eight days from now.

Before I was hauled out the courtroom, Sharpe said one more thing to me. "Don't take any favors, and stick to your own kind."

His face looked serious. Hard to pull that off with floppy ears. Where the fuck was this fur during the trial?

***

I remember going through a tunnel of light. No more would I be in the New Abilon City Jail.

Unfortunately the light was the cameras, not death. And getting out of jail just meant the new hell of prison.

Six years? I couldn't believe it. In fact, I didn't believe it. That would have driven me mad.

Instead I tried a more incremental approach. Just last the eight days until Sharpe comes. He would get me out, or at least tell me there was an alternative to being in prison. Like joining the army, or some kind of work release. Anything!

Maybe I did go a little mad. Counting on that mutt for anything proves it. But I held on to that belief so tight, it became part of the fiber of my being.

Eight days. I could do that.

I took a deep breath and looked around the prison bus as we pulled out onto the road. There weren't many other inmates. About half a dozen. The guards sat in rear facing seats,behind a chain link fence welded across the front section.

I checked, and it seemed we were all spread too far apart to make smalltalk. Not that I was really in the mood to talk. I just wanted something to busy my mind.

I kept coming back to Wally, or Williams, or whoever the fuck that ferret was, and what he said about taking a last look. I refused to follow his instructions. There's no way I would be locked up there for six to twenty years. That was unacceptable. So I spent most of the trip avoiding looking out the windows. It was pretty crappy once we got past the city limits anyways. Just vast fields, patched with unmelted snow, and an occasional gas station.

I think I zoned out somewhere along the way, because the bus hit a bump and when I looked up I could see this dark mass on the horizon. Not to be overly dramatic, but I kept thinking of a cancerous lump. In the red light of the setting sun, the dark concrete looked like the purplish gray of dead meat. Mounds of the stuff, surrounded by a double row of tower studded razor-wire electrified fence.

I held my breath as we rode through the receiving gate. I only noticed I was holding it when my lungs began to ache. I still held it for as long as I could, because once I breathed the air on this side of the fence, I knew it would infect me like the disease this place was.

I know, that sounds stupid. And when I did take a breath nothing happened. But I still wanted to remain as unconnected to this place as I did back at the jail.

We were lined up outside the bus. Two guards were comparing papers on their clipboards. I was cold, but they took their time, chitchatting as we new arrivals risked frost bite.

Finally one set of guards got back on the bus and left us. I looked longingly after the bus that moments before I barely acknowledged existed.

It was cold and the sun was going down. I wasn't stupid enough to ask if we could hurry things up, but I sure wished someone was.

An eternity later, this coal-black wolf swaggered out to us, warm in his uniform's coat.

"Let's get them processed," I heard him say to the guards watching us slowly freeze to death.

We walked through the gates of hell and I was just glad for the heat.

We were in the kind of waiting room that only a faceless bureaucracy could spawn. Almost a perfect copy of the one at the DMV. For a second I wondered if I might actually be in hell. But hell probably doesn't have mid-century propaganda style posters spelling out all the rules of conduct.

We stood in a dwindling line as my silent travel companions were ushered off to the next available Intake Officer. When it was my turn, I sat in a plastic chair looking at a raptor. It wasn't until it started speaking that I was sure of the gender, hidden under that impersonal dress code the State imposed on it's minions. She had a such a sweet lilting voice, I had to ask her to repeat herself when she asked the first of a series of probing, and in any normal circumstance, rude, questions.

"I asked if you are currently on any illicit drugs... are you high right now?"

"What? No. No, I'm not,"

"Do you feel suicidal?"

"No."

"Are you currently or previously affiliated with a gang?"

"No," I was in an art collective once, but I guess she wouldn't want me to explain my philosophy on the difference between public street art and vandalism.

The questions went on. Did I have any enemies in here? Do I have any species based bigotries that would affect who I could be housed with? Any religious considerations? No, no, and no. The questions kept coming.

Finally I was pointed to a new line, where I rejoined my faceless bus companions as we got our pictures taken and fingerprints recorded.

The guards took us to an empty room with one wall taken up by a one way mirror.

The black wolf addressed us. "I am Correctional Officer Blake. Follow the rules and we'll get along fine during your stay at Calidonia State Penitentiary. Now face the wall and strip."

What a stirring speech. I hesitantly complied, focusing on the bumpy texture of the white wall, imagining I was still home in bed having a cliche nightmare.

I chanced a look over my shoulder. The guards were making their way down the line.

"Face the wall!" Blake shouted at me. "What did I just say about following the rules?"

His voice got closer. Fuck.

There was a shuffle of papers on a clipboard. Blake muttered under his breath, "shit... Is this right?" He called over another guard and they spoke in hushed tones.

"That's him?" one of the guards asked.

I bit my lip. Hoping I was just being paranoid.

"You're that asshole that killed that widow," Blake stated that more as a fact than a question.

Damn it. "It was an accident," I tried to explain before getting cut off.

"When speaking to the staff, you use sir or ma'am," he shouted loud enough for everyone to hear.

I heard the snapping sound of a latex glove going on. I knew what was coming, but that didn't make it any easier.

I was pushed forward. I braced myself against the cold wall as my tail was pulled up. A finger pressed to my hole and Blake's muzzle was at my ear.

"You're tight, for a fox."

My words caught in my throat. I wanted to tell him to stop, to say this had to be illegal, but I couldn't.

"We'll see how long that lasts." The guards laughed.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he yelled to some other fur. I didn't know who was stupid enough to draw attention to themselves like I did, but if I ever find out, I'll be sure to thank them profusely.

Blake and his men left me to harass the other furs. Back then I was naive enough to think I'd dodge that bullet.

***

When we got out of Processing we all had our new light blue inmate uniforms. Pants and shirt were emblazoned with a big yellow CSP.

Of course they didn't have anymore shirts in my size. I had a moment of panic when I realized if I didn't tuck it in, I was perilously close to wearing a dress. That's just what I needed.

To say I was annoyed at the ill-fitting clothes, and almost getting finger fucked, would be an injustice to the general sense of indignity I felt at even being here. My crime was an accident.

We were taken into a hall with fading yellow lines painted onto the floor. I followed the fur in front of me, keeping my eyes on the yellow line. I resolved not to draw attention to myself again. That was a vow I quickly learned was not within my ability to keep.

We came to a stop at a checkpoint, which was a desk inside box of metal and bulletproof glass. From the desk a guard controlled the doors branching out to the various wings.

Blake talked to the raccoon and slid some papers through the box's slot.

"Opening C," an intercom announced.

There was a buzzing and mechanical click as the big iron doors opened. I was hit with a blast of noise louder than some concerts I've been to.

Strangely enough, this bothered me less than anything else so far. I think it was because that was a problem I could deal with. I was already thinking up ways to improvise earplugs when a hand grasped my collar.

"Not you," Blake said.

My heart sped up. My knowledge of incarceration, beyond jail, was limited to a few exploitation flicks, like Illsa: Wolfess of the SS. This not being an Almanian prison camp during the Second Great War, that knowledge was next to useless. Though it did give my idle mind ample visions of the kinds of tortures that could (but not likely to) befall me, as my fellow new inmates filed past. I felt another pang of loss just like when the bus left. I felt like a pup, desperately trying to imprint on anything remotely familiar in such a strange and hostile place.

The door buzzed and clicked with a finality exacerbated by the jarring silence when the background noise was cut off. There I was. Alone with Blake and an utterly disinterested raccoon. I shot a glance at the ceiling, scanning it for security cameras. Just one.

"Open cellblock H," he called to the raccoon.

I expected the buzz and noise, but instead the raccoon's muffled voice filtered out through his impenetrable box of safety. "Cellblock H? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Elliot Regal. Just jot that down. I'll have it in the system by morning."

I looked to the raccoon, fighting back the urge to ask what was wrong with cellblock H. But that would have went against my fruitless quest to maintain a low profile.

The raccoon shrugged and I jumped at the sound of the buzz. With my senses heightened by adrenalin, I immediately noticed it was quieter. Not ominously quiet, like the checkpoint was with the doors closed, but still, quieter than cellblock C.

Blake motioned me forward with a dismissive hand wave. For a second, I wasn't sure if he was following me. No such luck.

"I watch the news. Your trial was on a lot," he said behind me.

Did he want me to say something? Maybe give him an autograph?

"I didn't know today was the big day. Sentencing," he sounded enthused.

I stepped over the threshold, not bothering to hold my breath, and got my first look at cellblock H. To my left were two tiers of nine cells, connected by a flight of stairs. The rest of the big, mostly empty, room was a common area. Four immovable tables in a row, and a TV screen set into the wall. An antiseptic void that begged for some art.

"Up the stairs," Blake ordered.

I trudged slowly upwards as news of a new arrival spread from cell to cell, adding to a spontaneous chorus of threats and insults. Blake pretended not to hear, or just didn't care, and continued talking to me.

"I skimmed your paper work once I recognized you. Possible parole in six years? In what universe is that fair?"

I bit my tongue. He wanted to get a rise out of me. Though I did agree it was unfair, but for a completely different reason.

"As an agent of the justice system, and an all around decent fur, it's my duty to make sure your time as a guest of the great state of Calidonia is as rehabilitating as possible."

I reached the top of the stairs dreading what that meant, and dreading even more that I already had a general idea. I looked into the nearest cell. A hare with tattooed ears had a hand down his pants, lewdly playing with himself while his other hand was flipping me the bird.

I looked at Blake, but he just pointed. "All the way to end."

I pressed on with my head down, not wanting to match images with the sounds I was hearing from the cells. Reaching the end of the second level walk, Blake slapped a hand on my shoulder.

"Welcome to your new home," he enthused.

I turned, not really wanting to, and got my first look at my little slice of hell. Good lord, it was smaller than that shithole cell they locked me in at the jail. Six by eight, if I had to guess. The far end held a stainless-steel cylindrical toilet, with a wash basin built into the top. Can't imagine how that could be hygienic. Out of one wall jutted a concrete slab that passed for a desk. A plastic stool was tucked under it. Above the sort-of-table ran a no-frills shelf, empty, save for a folded towel and small portable television, angled at the opposite wall, at the two bunks.

This brings us to my main issue...

"Elliot Regal, meet your cellmate, Nikola Dimitri."

I saw the huge tiger sitting on the lower bunk, with his bare feet propped up on the table opposite, long corded earbuds tethered him to the small television.

Blake cleared his throat, "Dimitri! Come meet your new cellmate."

The tiger gave us our first look. He pulled out his earbuds, obviously he didn't hear Blake, but looking at me, he seemed to understand.

"Fuck no, Blake." He had a throaty, gravely kind of voice that matched his looks perfectly.

"You two are going to get along great," Blake said.

Dimitri stood, easily towering over both me and the guard. "You know I won't live with someone."

Blake laughed and said to me, "Dimitri is cranky. He just got out of a six month stretch in solitary."

"You're not putting him in here with me," Dimitri rattled the bars. I looked to Blake, mostly concerned with if the doors were strong enough to contain the beast.

"For some reason, his cellmates always end up hurt, or dead. And if he didn't come in with so many multiple life sentences, I'm sure he would have them by now. The fact is," Blake squeezed my shoulder in a paternal manner, "with cases like Dimitri, it just doesn't pay to send it through the courts every time he adds another felony. The best we can do is bury him away in solitary for half a year at a time."

Dimitri gripped the bars tighter, causing his ample muscles to bulge under his orange and black-striped fur. It hit me that Blake was serious about putting me in there with that lunatic. I looked at the wolf, my eyes pleading with him to just shut up and not piss the tiger off further.

"Blake," Dimitri roared, "I swear if you put him in here, I'll kill him. And when you and your faggot CO's come to drag me back to solitary, I'll rip your throat out before I get there!"

Blake laughed. I did not.

Breaking my vow to keep as low a profile as possible, I backed away, until I was press against the safety railing and protested. "Blake- Sir, y-you can't!"

Blake spun on me, "I can! In here, I am god."

My knees started to buckle. This couldn't be real, could it? "B-but he said he'd kill me!" Blake seemed unmoved. "Please! Whatever I did, I don't deserve this!"

My mind raced to keep up with my heart in overdrive. The advice from my half-ass lawyer came back to me. Should I tell Blake I made a horrible mistake back at processing, and that I really did have speciesist leanings that meant I had to be housed with my own kind?

A look at Blake's barely concealed smirk gave me my answer.

"I just said I was going to kill him," Dimitri shouted. He to was desperately looking for a way out of this. Though I'll admit, he was doing it with more dignity.

"It's your life. If you want to spend it alone in a dark, cold box..." Blake let his words hang there. "Now back away from the door."

In stunned horror, I hoped the tiger would stand his ground. If he wouldn't let me in, Blake would have to put me somewhere else, right?

Blake reached for the radio clipped to his belt. "Want to do this the hard way?"

Dimitri backed away, never turning his back. as Blake raise his radio. "Open eighteen."

A bust of inaudible static responded, followed by the doors hydraulics opening it

"Waitwaitwaitwait-" I tried to stall. Unsuccessfully.

With less effort than I'd like to admit, Blake grabbed my arm and flung me in.

"Close eighteen."

Dimitri charged forward, which given his stature, and the size of the cell, meant my death was two steps away. My eyes shut in anticipation of the deathblow.

I hit the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of me. My eyes opened. I'd just been brushed aside. I watched the tiger's fists slam into the bars the same moment an echoing clank sealed the cell and my fate.

"Blake, you bastard!"

The wolf stood just outside Dimitri's long reach. He smiled. "You two have fun," he laughed, starting to leave.

"You're next, you hear me?" Dimitri shouted.

Blake was almost to the stairs. "Go fuck yourself, Dimitri. Or fuck each other. I don't care."

"Bastard!" Dimitri growled.

I watched him watching (as much as he could) Blake. That horrible buzzing signaled the wolf's final exit.

Dimitri faced me. Survival instincts kicked in. Millions of years of evolution, countless generations of the fittest, all leading up to this point, to get me out of this alive.

I averted my gaze. My tail bristled and curved up between my shaking legs. My head tilted to the side, bearing neck in a sign of total submission.

The last coherent thought that ran through my mind, once Dimitri's giant fist connected with my soft unmuscled belly, was how utterly and cosmically lucky my damn useless ancestors must have been to stumble this far up the stream of time.

***

If I'd eaten lunch that day, I'm sure I would have been laying in its regurgitated puddle. My insides felt like they'd been squeezed into a tiny ball, then skewered with needles.

I was wrapped around that ball of pain, in a fetal position. I tried to uncurl.

"If you don't shut up..." Dimitri said.

I must have been groaning. I opened my eyes. He was back on the lower bunk, watching that small television.

I closed my mouth. The pain was making it hard to breath. My eyes stung. The reality of my new life was starting to sink in now that the pain made it harder to pretend this was all a bad dream. This might have been the lowest point of my life up to that point. I started crying.

It wasn't just the pain, though if you imagine a handful if red hot coals shoved into your stomach, you might see why it might have contributed. No, I think I was mourning the loss of my life. Not that it was much, but I did enjoy things that made existence tolerable, even fun, before all this. And the 'this' culminated in my crumpled body being wracked with pain, sentenced to at least six years caged with a lunatic that was probably going to finish me off at the next commercial break.

I bit down on my hand, trying to stifle an impending sob. There was a mixed blessing in that emotional breakdown. For one, the pain in my stomach started to dull, but I was now fully aware of just how fucked I was.

Over the course of the evening I managed to push myself, inch by inch, into the corner, hugging my knees to my chest. If I made myself as small as possible he might not notice me.

That turned out to be a shit plan.

Dimitri tired of the television. He got up and stood towering over me.

"Don't," I whimpered.

"I told him I don't have cellmates."

"Please, just give me 'til morning," I pleaded with my arms up, not that I could have blocked anything. "I- I'll just spend the night right here," I patted the wall of my little corner. "Tomorrow I'll tell them I have to be moved."

"Blake won't move you." I'd only just met the sadistic wolf, but I knew the crazy tiger was probably right.

"Please, please, please, just think this over. If you kill me, Blake said you'd have to spend six months in solitary." I was grasping at straws, but hoped solitary confinement was as miserable as I imagined it to be. "M-my lawyer is coming next thursday. If you just give me 'til then, I promise you I won't get in your way. I'll just stay right here and won't say a word."

Dimitri folded his arms like he might be considering it.

"I can give you the money in my commissary account too," I tried to sweeten the deal. "Anything you want."

"Anything I want," he repeated.

I nodded furiously.

"Know how to suck a dick?" he asked.

I know, I know, I'm playing into the stereotype, but yes I did experiment with some of the foxes I knew. Alcohol was usually involved.

"Yes," I said.

He leaned over me, pressing his hands to the wall. I understood what he wanted and shifted to my knees. I looked up, he was huge in a solid slab of muscle sort of way. Are steroids easy to get in prison?

My hands shook as I pulled on the elastic waistbands of his pants and underwear. The friction of the lowering fabric was enough to start his arousal. My heightened senses could already pick up the fresh release of pheromones under the thick build up of natural musk. I shuddered at the smell of raw alpha-male power.

The sharp black stripes wrapping around those thick, taut thighs, in their fields of orange, fading to an almost pure white, were almost as visually stimulating as the sight of that huge cock, firming between them. I couldn't help but appreciate the aesthetics.

I stroked my fingers along its length. How big would it get, and where was I supposed to put it?

A hand rested on my head, slowly curling into a fist with my hair caught between the fingers. Remembering that my life literally depended on giving a good blow job, I took a firm hold of Dimitri and angled his rod upward. I leaned in, dragging the hand gripping my hair along. The pain didn't register. My mouth opened, wider than it needed to, but I was stretching my jaw while I had the chance. I ran my tongue along the vein on the underside of his shaft.

Dimitri's hold on my hair tightened, letting me know I was doing a good job. I licked along it a few more times and began to slid it in my mouth.

Thanks to many beer-bongs and drinking games, I was fairly good at relaxing my throat muscles, because if I would have thrown up on him... well, I'm sure my life would have ended that second.

Maybe if I'd been laying down, or at least better positioned, I might have been able to take all of him. But as close I could get, without his cock stabbing out the back of my head, only put most of him in my mouth. To make up for my muzzle's shortcomings I started jerking whatever wasn't in my mouth with one hand, and fondling his sack with my other. Matters of life and death deserve both hands.

Gradually, Dimitri took control, pulling my head to the rhythm he wanted. His sack started to tighten, and I could feel throbbing against my tongue. Breathing became an issue when he started thrusting in addition to manually pumping my head. The jerks came faster and more erratic. Timing when I could get a gasp of air was impossible. Spots were starting to fleck my vision and his cock was pulsing in time with the sound of my own rushing blood.

Dimitri started to moan. He made a final thrust and held me tight, the head of his cock buried deep in my throat. I felt his cum start firing in thick bursts. Soon some of it was backing into my mouth, giving me the full salty, bitter flavor. I sucked as hard as I could, hoping that I would leave him mostly clean when pulled out of my mouth.

The orgasmic spasms stopped and he softened just enough for me to get air in. Not enough air apparently, as when he did finally release me, I was gasping like a fish out of water.

Dimitri caught his breath before me. He grabbed my shirt collar and looked into my eyes.

"Blake might think he's a god out there," he pointed out the cell. "But in here, I'm your god. Get me?"

What could I say to that? "Yes, sir."

*****