Johnny Delano Brown [Boys Reformatory #9]
Click on image to enlarge.
by William Maltese
Category: Erotica/Gay Fiction
Description: ... answers all of the questions you'll ever have about what goes on, sometimes before, mainly after, young men are incarcerated by the legal system behind confining razor-wire fences, steel bars, and locked doors. Are the horror stories of detention true? Are the rapes that frequent? Are the police and prison guards cruel and corrupt? Is true love never found among inmates? Short of becoming eighteen and being jailed by society, you likely won't ever get as close to the truth as these insightful and erotic Maltese vignettes take you. All characters in this series are 18 years or older.
eBook Publisher: MLR Press, LLC/MLR Press, LLC,
eBookwise Release Date: December 2011
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [16 KB]
Reading time: 5-7 min.
Johnny Delano Brown
Date of Birth: January 10, 1992
Place of Birth: San Jose, California
Weight: 160 pounds
Scars and Marks: None known
Remarks: Brown is an articulate, clean-cut, and generally considered polite young man and, as such, may not stand out in any crowd. He has the reputation for being a good student, but somewhat shy and withdrawn.
Brown's mother and father dead, he has aunts living in California and Nevada.
JOHNNY DELANO BROWN IS WANTED FOR THE LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA MURDER OF HIS FATHER, KALOR DELANO BROWN, WHOM HE ALLEGEDLY STABBED AND KILLED AT THE FAMILY RESIDENCE BEFORE FLEEING THE SCENE.
CONSIDERED POTENTIALLY DANGEROUS
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS TEENAGER, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL AUTHORITIE
* * * *
In retrospect, I may have done it differently.
Not the murdering of daddy dear and the slicing off of his pathetic cock and balls, depositing that resulting bloody phallic trifecta in the garbage can outside our house, as I was fleeing the scene; there was no going back on that plan, no having delayed it any longer than I did, once I'd made the decision to make it happen. I'm just sorry I waited until after he'd done to my brother, me suddenly too old, what he did.
Maybe, just maybe, though, I should have stuck around and tried to explain the cause and effect to the authorities, and taken my chances with a possibly understanding jury who might have condemned more my father's long-time rapes of his two sons, than condemn his older son for having stabbed him to death and castrated the bastard for what he'd done. I never, not even then, had any illusions of ever persuading my mother as to my justification for killing her husband, my father; I suspect she always knew what he was up to whenever she left him with us; she loved the sonofabitch more than she ever loved us, certainly enough to overlook his each and every incestuous crime.
At the time, however my gut instinct was to run, and I ran, and I'm still running. The time for getting my brother to the hospital for the positive results of a rape kit has long since passed, as, likely, have all his memories (I can hope) of what our father did to him. My own traumas were, for ages, simply nightly forgotten, and conveniently not recalled, the next mornings.
Definitely, I should have thought of what would be my course of action after I'd done the deed. Having just turned eighteen at the time, with no savings, and only the sixty dollars taken from my father's wallet and stuffed into a front pocket of my pants, I wasn't really equipped to head on out into the big wide world, under any circumstances, let alone under those circumstances accompanying my murder of my father.
I think it's highly ironic that the easiest way for me to earn cash, without the chance of being spotted by some news-observant employer--who even if not having seen my face on television could still ponder the possible familiarity of my name on my social-security card (where do aliens buy fake ones?)--is sex with strange men in dark alleys, along with the constantly attending threat of the police suddenly arresting me not for murder but for solicitation and male prostitution. Six of one, half a dozen of the other!
Equally ironic is how what my father did to me, his having been killed (in large part) by me because of it, has made me so good at fucking the asses of others. Having so often been unwillingly and uncomfortably pinned, sexually, I've somehow intuitively assimilated the entirely opposite knack of making butts, and their owners, genuinely appreciative of being serviced by me.
For instance, take this guy whose ass I'm even now screwing, here in this dark alley behind Jon-Jon's Bar & Grill in East Hollywood. He sought me out specifically, because he'd heard from a friend of a friend that I could fuck ass better than any hustler on the block. It seems I have the reputation as someone who doesn't just stick his dick up an asshole, fast and furious, and gallop to a speedy conclusion with the sole intent of getting off my rocks--God, but I know how that feels! Knowing how cock can hurt when used without finesse up a butt hole, I, with a far bigger cock than the one had by my father, have, from my very first screw of an asshole for cash, made a conscious effort, which has since paid off, to be less the sadistic prick that my father was.
"Oh, stud, all that I've heard about your skill at fucking ass is right," says the guy (claims his name is Craig) presently speared on the other end of my plowing dick. He's bent over the top of a trash can, and I worry about the possible attention-getting metal noises he makes in his excited movements beneath me that whacks his legs, belly, and chest, against the tin and rattles the can's already dented lid. I'm thinking I should have just insisted he bend over and grab his legs, or just propped himself against the nearest wall, either position likely to have provided less sound effects. However, I'm too committed, now, to change the game-plan mid-fuck. While I don't mind giving a guy his money's worth, there's no way I want to prolong any of this with an interruption and begin-again.
I hold to his hips, and I ram my dick into him, one more time, as far as my contracting balls. I do, sometimes, wish that we male prostitutes could fake our passion as well as our female counterparts. A gal says she's orgasmed, and who's to know differently, but her? A guy says he's climaxed, without having the cum to show for it, and everyone involved is in on the ruse.
"Can you talk dirty to me, stud?" he asks.