Fragile;
that was how Mick Daniels finally chose to describe the boy that he
escorted past the rows of dark cells. The teen shuffled, tripping
occasionally on his leg irons. Daniels gripped the boy's arm so tight
that he could feel the heat of a forming bruise, the over-caffeinated
officer stricken with paranoia that the prisoner would slip his
handcuffs; it wouldn't be another two days until the pair from the
Juvenile Detention Center would arrive. They'd had to special order them
and a uniform after the 18-year-old was convicted of killing a family
of four while drunk driving on prom night. He'd needed to stand on a
phone book at the murder trial. Cute little Noah Blanche wouldn't be up
for parole until he was in his 50's.
"You know where you're going?" Daniels taunted, digging deeper into the
boy's arm. He could practically touch his thumb to the second knuckle,
there was so little of the kid to grip.
Noah shook his head, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He'd been crying when
the guard had unlocked his cell and plucked him from his bed. He
stumbled beside the man on shaky, fawnish little legs. His pants sagged
and fell, pooling around knees, which bent in awkward desperation to
keep them from falling any further as he was dragged.
Mick smiled, his mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth.
"For such a pretty little thing, you ain't too sharp." Noah sure was
pretty; petite, girlish, with smooth pale skin. He's been wearing
eyeliner and a band t-shirt in the mug shot. His hair was slightly
longer than it'd been in the picture, dyed black to cover where there'd
one been purple stripes, bangs over one eye. Underneath he was
baby-faced except for his sunken-in eyes, surrounded by eyelashes so
long that Mick wondered for a second if the kid had mascara on. The grey
was a fitting color for the fear and despair in them, but Mick would
have liked him for him to be blue-eyed. Still, the kid was hypnotizing.
He dragged him in silence to the laundry room, where a diverse group of
inmates was seated around a table.
Cards.
Poker Chips.
Noah understood now. Mick smiled, amused by the change in the boy's
expression, the way his body language switched from docile to tense. His
eyes opened to perfect circles, counting the chips in the white and
pink checkerboard linoleum of the laundry room floor.
"I'll raise you the top bunk in this little punk's room, all in." Mick's
voice echoed off the appliances. The lights flickered, bathing
everything in a dirty yellow, swinging slightly with the hum of the
industrial washer. Noah felt a cold rush over him, entranced by the
buzzing machines. He tried to find rhythm in it, to distract himself
from the conversation. In his mind, everybody's words were out of synch
like in an old, badly-dubbed Godzilla movie. Lewd questions fired at him
from directions that he refused to try and follow.
"Ever suck a cock?"
He focused on the shuffle of poker chips as they were pushed into the middle of the table.
"Bet you do, don't you faggot?"
Noah felt Mick finally release his arm. The blood shot back into it
painfully, he hadn't even realized it's gone numb. He looked down at his
feet, each one covering a single tile, separated by a single tile. He
counted seventeen tiles from himself to the door. Thirty from himself to
the table. Fifty to the closest washer. He counted the tiles from his
feet to every landmark in the room, trying to ignore the jeers. Trying
not to keep track of the game.
He practically snapped his neck when he heard one of the men cheer. He
had a shaved head, and looked like he was maybe in his 30's. He had the
numbers 88 on his knuckles, and was covered what Noah thought was an
excessive amount of swastikas. Not that he would say it; this guy looked
like he'd spent the last 20 years lifting weights. He was tall enough
that he had to crouch to sit on the folding chair. Standing up, the
enormous skinhead walked over and approached the boy.
"I asked you a question before, sweetie," he spoke with sarcastic
patience. "You ever suck a cock?" Bending down to his level, he took
little Noah's smooth face in his hand. There was no hint of stubble on
the kid's cheeks, still too young to grow a beard. Hus features seemed
to crack and open and leak at the question.
A sharp, whining sound came from inside him as he uttered a short "Oh
God, no." The skinhead laughed first, the others quick to join him.
Noah's lips trembled, red and pouty and vulnerable. His crying had
already gotten them nice and wet.
The skinhead put his hand on the kid's narrow shoulder. There was no
resistance as he pushed Noah down to his knees. His face was blank, eyes
cancelled and staring off past his assailant to read the serial numbers
on a dryer. They were too blurry from the tears to make it out, but
trying distracted him from the fact that the guy's hard cock was out of
his pants. He felt a large, powerful hand grip his hair so hard that he
cried out.
"Fucking look at it!" The pain was immediate, and he wondered how much
pressure it would take to detach a scalp. He could imagine it ripping
clean off, and terrified of the possibility, stared down the barrel of
the skinhead's throbbing member. It was as thick as his wrist, and so
swollen that it was purple. He guessed it was as long as a floor tile
and a half, eight or nine inches. A plump blue vein climbed the
underside in a softly curving half-spiral, leading to a defined head.
Little beads of pre-cum cascaded down it like beads of sweat. He'd never
seen another man's hard dick before. The sight intimidated the boy, who
opened his mouth to gasp in pain when his hair was pulled even tighter.
He gagged, surprised, as the thick organ was shoved all the way into his
throat. He tried to resist, but the skinhead was too strong. His face
was pulled flush against the man's abs, eyes closed and pressed against
wither side of his belly button. He could feel himself trying to scream,
suffocating as the head pushed deep down his slender virgin esophagus.
The impossibly thick cock bruised the tender, punk, wet tissue, spasms
of pleasure echoing through it as Noah choked. His lips were stretched
obscenely around the base, buried in the thick black pubic hair. The
scent of sweat and testosterone lingered in his nostrils.
His tiny wrists struggled against the cuffs, jerking in a tap-out
motion. He was panicking, all he could think was no air, no fucking air,
oh God. No fucking air. He tried to shout it, but with the man buried
in his mouth he could only grunt soft vibrations against the swollen
flesh. He could feel it pulsing along with his head as his vision
dimmed. Slowly Noah began to relax. His throat opened, allowing the man
to force himself even deeper somehow. His hands stopped their
struggling, fingers twitching pathetically as he gripped at the last
edges of his life.
Just then, the Nazi withdrew. The boy stared off into the nothingness,
jaw slack. He made a pathetic wheezing noise as he sputtered back to
life. His entire field of vision was blocked by the man's tattooed skin.
The dark black arms of a swastika warped and bent jaggedly along the
defined contours of his hard stomach. Suddenly, he felt his head jerked
forward against the subtly twitching body with enough power to crack his
nose against the flexing muscle. Noah snorted, sending wet, cherry-red
splatters to pool and drip from the man's belly button. His gagging only
made his throat tighter around the man, who thrust violently into the
slick orifice, enjoying the slight resistance.
Noah started to turn blue again, hands flapping desperately against his
back as if the cuffs were the only thing holding him back as the
tattooed giant imposed his will on the helpless boy. His eyes drifted up
to meet those of his assailant, pleading and violated. Broken.
Submissive and helpless and oh fuck it was just too much; the skinhead
let out a short grunt as his hot cum poured into the boy's throat. The
release was so intense that he didn't even notice the boy had lost
consciousness, jizz streaked with little ribbons of blood form his nose
pouring from his half-parted lips.
The man withdrew, but forced the kid's mouth shut with one hand. Noah
tried desperately to breathe through his bloody nose, to spit out the
mouthful of thick salty cum trapped in his mouth. His sprayed a fine
mist over the skinhead's tattooed knuckles.
"Swallow it!" the man commanded, giving his head a shake. Weakly,
defeated, he obeyed. He felt it slide all the way down his throat and
settle in his churning stomach; he was gonna be sick. To his relief, the
skinhead put himself away, chuckling, "No way that was his first time,
too good." He elbowed the officer next to him. "Wouldn't be fair if you
didn't get a round," he smiled to Mick, who nodded and stood up.
"Please, no..." Noah begged. He felt tears threatening in his eyes
again, but he knew they would do him no good; they were all going to
take what they wanted from him unless he took a stand now. He felt the
officer grab him effortlessly by the collar and lift him back to his
knees. The boy clamped his mouth shut defiantly. Mick laughed at the
pathetic sight; the emaciated kid, one shoulder fallen out of the collar
of his oversized orange jumpsuit. Blood trailing down his
tear-streaked, puffy face. Lips folded in on themselves to disappear
into a pencil thin line, a shot, exhausted look in his too-wide eyes.
The officer's chuckle muted into a soft, controlled smile. He pushed two
fingers into the kid's mouth, separating his barred teeth with only the
slightest, most hesitant hint of resistance. He felt the hot puffs of
breath quicken as the scissored his fingers to part his trembling jaw.
With the other hand, he unzipped the fly of his uniform. He was slightly
smaller than the skinhead, his cock an angry red color. It twitched
visibly with the anticipation of that silky, narrow adolescent throat
that his fingers were only centimeters from. He pushed them back further
to make the boy gag, excited by the powerful spasm that rippled through
Noah's violated mouth.
He wasn't even thinking when he did it. He bit Mick's fingers as hard as
he could, feeling his teeth break the skin. He tasted blood, but
couldn't figure out if it was his or Mick's. The officer pried his
fingers free. With a chilling amount of restraint, he smeared the
bleeding digit over Noah's visible eye. The boy whimpered softly,
mumbling a timid chant of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as he
shrunk back from the officer.
"You're pretty," Mick hissed, bringing his hand up to inspect his injuries. "That's why I'm gonna let you live to regret that."