by Waffles



That familiar word echoed and reverberated from pod to pod, and throughout every square inch of the common are, signaling what some might call the end of another day here in Em City, while others might say it's just the beginning of another long, lonely, and potentially dangerous night.


An end? A beginning? Whatever the implication it meant 24 hours less, one more line carved deeply into the stone walls, and one less day to spend here in this fucking shit-hole. A temporary residence for some, but for the less fortunate, the real fuck-ups, this was home _permanently.

Lots of shit goes down here after five, when the inmates get locked in their cages for the night, and ever more after ten, when the lights go out and it's really every man for himself. If you're lucky, (or if you have protection), you might make it though the night in one piece; physically and/or mentally. That is if you're not someone's prag, or if your podmate isn't some kind of complete fucking psychopath.

But, if you're _really_ lucky, and you've got plenty of money, or a good connection, you can get all the tits you want. Coke, heroin, pot, whatever your pleasure. Tits to keep you company. Tits to help you through the night.

Tits to numb the reality.


"Five hours. Five _fucking_ hours." Tobias Beecher groused as he languidly ran his slender fingers through his tousled blond hair.

"Jeezus, Beecher, you'd think you'd be used to it by now."

Beecher stared vacantly across the cramped pod and raised his eyebrows at his roommate, Ryan O'Reily. He mindlessly picked at a hangnail and sighed deeply before replying. "I know, I know. I should be, but really, could anyone _ever_ get used to it?"

"Beech, man, don't know 'bout anyone else, but I don't _need_ to get used to it," that familiar devilish O'Reily grin began to spread across Ryan's lips and a roguish glint danced in his eyes as he stretched his hand out to high-five Beecher. "I got plenty of tits to get me through."

"Yeah, tits..." Beecher extended his hand to reciprocate the gesture and smiled as he was rewarded with a fresh vial of heroin slid discretely into his palm. Beecher quickly cuffed the narcotic, looked around for hacks, and inhaled deeply. Closing his eyes, he waited for the mind-blowing numbness the drug induced.

Soon, Beecher's hand floated out, (or seemed to), offering the duster back to Ryan. As their fingers touched an electric jolt ran through Toby's body causing him to jerk his hand away as if stung by an invisible insect. The sting of Ryan's touch against his hand made Beecher shudder. A high-five was one thing; a quick, momentary slap, but _that_ touch, it was tender, soft, and Toby didn't know what to do.

Ryan O'Reily, hard, opinionated, anything but soft and gentle, (unless you knew him well). But that touch, when their fingers made that momentary union, Beecher felt a familiar need rise up through his body, coursing through his veins. A need to touch the Mick, to feel another person's skin against his. He'd been fucked in more ways than just one by Schillinger, and he needed to feel a comforting touch, so he didn't have to be constantly reminded of the horrific treatment he had received from Vern.


Need. Skin, touching skin. Warm flesh brushing together passing unspoken messages. A gesture. Love, hate, anger, fear, _lust_. Need, it's all in a touch. Everybody needs it. _Wants_ it. A handshake. A pat on the back. Good feelings.

But if they're not good expressions; a scowl, a slap, a _rape_, it breaks you. Makes you crumble. It manifests itself; deep inside you, eating it's way out. You don't want that touch, that look, that _feel_. But when it's gone, not that you want that sensation back again, you just want a touch, a caress, a fondle, a stroke. You need to touch, to feel, to erase the bad memories and replace them with good ones. So someday, when you look back, the recollections that go with the grazes, caresses, touches are good ones, and not dark, black scars that will forever gnaw away at you.


"You okay, Beecher?" Ryan questioned as Toby's hand pulled back quickly. He felt that spark too, but pushed it down, deep down. He was a woman's man. _Nothing_ else.

Beecher's cheeks reddened as he tried to compose himself. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Don't know what that was all about." He knew, but he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Ryan what he had been thinking. At least not yet.

"Whatever, Beecher." Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep hit, relaxing as the intoxicating substance tracked its way through his willing body. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes stretched into hours; soon the customary metallic sound of the lights being extinguished filled Em City, and all around inmates said their goodnights, crawled into their beds, and clutched their tits or their shanks close to their body, hoping to make it though one more night, meaning _one less day_.

Toby stifled a yawn as he rose from his seat, and wavered as he slowly ambled towards his bunk. "Night." The words slurred as he dragged himself up onto his bed, not really sleepy, but realizing there wasn't much else to do now with the lights out.

"Night, Beech." Ryan muttered as he lay his head back on his cool, hard pillow. He didn't close his eyes, he wasn't that tired, but stared mindlessly at the underside of Toby's mattress. 'Lonely man, fuckin' lonely.' Ryan drew the vial of heroin back up to his nose for one last hit before bed. 'Thank god for tits.'


Tits. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. At least not in here, when things are this fucked up. It's a vicious circle most of the time though. Get the tits, sell the tits, make the money, buy the tits... take the tits.

Vicious never-fucking-ending circle.


"Eleven o'clock. Seven more hours." Beecher began to grouse again, drugs worn off, still not sleepy, but nothing else to do but whine about the hour. "Seven more..."

"Oh shut the fuck up, Beecher!" Ryan punched the underside of Toby's mattress as he spoke. "It's no different that yesterday, day before yesterday, and the day before that."

"No kidding, O'Reily. And it'll be the same thing tomorrow and day after that and the day after that..." Beecher's voice trailed off as he realized the absurdity of the conversation. Then silence. Silence.

Minutes going by, bringing and end to yet another day in Em City. Shit, how many more days? Too fuckin' many more.

The silence ate at Beecher. He couldn't sleep, the slight tingle still running through his fingers where they had grazed against O'Reily's making him think of the many times Vern had touched him, made Toby touch him in return. And worse. Degrading him. Beecher wanted to feel someone else, anyone else, as long as it wasn't Vern.


Ryan sighed loud and heavily, seeming to take his time in answering. "_What_?"

"You ever get lonely? Ever miss being held?"

"Beecher, I told you I'm not a faggot. I don't suck dick."

"Didn't ask you if you sucked dick, I just asked if you ever got lonely?"

Ryan paused. Thought for a moment. Sure he was lonely. He missed Cyril, he missed Shannon, but did he think about it? Fuck no. That was too depressing. And when the thoughts did creep past his stone mask, he made sure to suppress them with more and more heroin. Exactly what he was helping Toby do with his issues about Vern.


Beecher's voice snapped Ryan from his thoughts. "Yeah, I get fuckin' lonely." He muttered thoughts of Shannon threatening to crack his uncaring facade. She pissed him off, but god, she was good in bed and he missed that. Missed being touched so badly. "You?"


Silence again. Beecher lay wrapped in thoughts of Genevieve; thoughts of Vern as Ryan tried desperately to quell his yearnings for satisfaction. He wanted Shannon to come visit. He needed her to come. He needed to come.


"Jesus! What Beecher?"

"Can I suck your dick?"


Another guy? Fuck no! I know people in here have to do what they have to do to get by. But not me. I'm _not_ a faggot. No way. I don't need it that bad. Some guys do. Guys like Ritchie. Or the ones who snapped like Beecher. But not me.


"Suck my dick? Fuck no, Beecher!" Ryan kicked the bottom of Toby's mattress hard, making the man on the top bunk jolt a bit. "Fuck no." He muttered.


"Why? I just told you. I ain't no fuckin' faggot boy. I don't do that. How many times I got to tell you that?"

"I said I'd suck your dick." Beecher replied. "I'd do all the work."

What the fuck was Toby thinking? Suck my dick. As if I'd let him. Let _anyone_.

"No way, Beecher." Ryan answered as he reached his hand down to scratch his balls. Much to his surprise, (and embarrassment), the small amount of talk he and Beecher had just exchanged was beginning to make him hard. 'Fuck.'

"You can just pretend I'm Shannon or something." Toby sounded as if he was begging, beginning to plead. The sound of desperation laid thickly in his voice. Something told Ryan Beecher needed to do this, but he wasn't about to let himself get sucked off by a man.

He knew Schillinger had fucked with Toby. Fucked with his mind. Made him need to do it for some sick reason or something like that. But Ryan couldn't help him. 'I'm not a faggot.' He muttered as he slipped his fingers through the cotton slit in his boxers and began to slowly stroke his hand up and down his semi-hard shaft. 'Not a faggot.'

"I heard that."


'3am. Three fuckin' hours.' Beecher thought to himself. Lights still out. Couldn't sleep. Ryan was sleeping though, Toby had checked on him. The Irishman had fallen asleep with his hand on his dick. Toby knew what he had been doing. He had heard the familiar sound of someone's hand pumping on their meat. A sound he was quite familiar with now that Genevieve was gone, and there wasn't much else to do in Oz. Toby had heard the soft groans that had slipped from Ryan's lips as he finished himself off, his breathing eventually evening out, slowing down, then dropping off into quiet snores.

'Not a faggot, O'Reily? So why'd you beat off thinkin' of me?' Toby looked back down to a sleeping Ryan. Almost angelic. Quiet, peaceful, sleeping. With his dick in his hands.

Beecher looked around. With the lights out it was hard to see the other inmates, and the hacks, but the coast looked clear so he slipped off the top bunk and noiselessly sat down on the end of Ryan's bed.

Toby drew in his breath and reached his hand out, up the sheet, up and between Ryan's legs. He cautiously wrapped his fingers around Ryan's now flaccid and sleeping cock and began to gently squeeze and pump his hand up and down.


Beecher smiled as he witnessed the edges of Ryan's thin and sensual lips begin to curl up into a fantasy-filled smile. Those lips, begging to be kissed, sucked on, thought Beecher, but he knew better. Waking Ryan now was not part of the plan. The Mick would never allow this molestation to continue if he were coherent and realized it was not all just a dream.

Up, down, Beecher continued to manipulate Ryan's hardening prick in his hand, tightening his grip on each down-stroke, as if milking the salty pre-come from the swollen tip. 'Fucking beautiful.' He thought.


"Oh, Shannon. God." Ryan lowered his eyes to his taut midsection and panted lightly as he watched his wife jerk him off, slowly, reveling in the long, drawn-out strokes. "Oh man..."


*Make him happy. He'll give you more tits.*

'Happy.' Beecher grinned widely and continued to knead Ryan's rigid cock in his digits, feeling the swelling member twitch in his hand each time his tender fingers grazed across the overly sensitive tip. Beecher ran his pointer finger across the small slit that was oozing pre-come and covered the top of his finger. Toby's body shivered as he placed the slick finger in his mouth and rolled his tongue around tasting Ryan's unique, salty musk.

Beecher wanted more of that taste he thought as his own cock twitched in delight at the new taste he had found. He raised his eyes to take in Ryan's reaction to his manipulations and was rewarded as a small moan escaped from Ryan's throat.

The smile on Ryan's face was quixotic. Beecher knew it wasn't for him, but maybe it was, in some strange way. Whatever is was, Beecher was making Ryan happy, and he was making himself quite happy as well.


"Oh God. Suck me, Shannon." Ryan panted, the words choking from his lips as he ran his fingers through his wife's dark hair.

"Anything." She replied.

Ryan guided her head down to his crotch, gasping as her soft malleable lips skimmed across his sensitive cock-head. He tilted his head back and continued to direct Shannon's mouth to the desired target.


'Anything.' The word ran through Beecher's head, as he fondled Ryan's enlarged penis. 'For you Ryan. For _tits_.'

Beecher's eyes widened as a cogent hand urged his head down between Ryan's legs, embedding his nose and mouth amidst a dark thatch of pubic hair. Beecher inhaled deeply, feeling his cock jerk in his pants due to the heady sensation. He could feel a damp patch of pre-come beginning to stain the inside of his boxers, his sensitive tip rubbing up against the fabric confines, but could do nothing to satisfy himself without risking waking the dreaming Irishman. Instead, he directed his thoughts to pleasing the slumbering Ryan. Toby smiled as he parted his pliant lips and embraced Ryan's prick with his moist orifice.

Ryan pushed down and set the rhythm to which Toby followed; his head bobbing up and down, being pushed harder and more forcefully each couple of strokes. Beecher's head was rocked back and forth as Ryan wove his long fingers through the blond abundance of hair, again governing the movements as he fucked Toby in the mouth with his cock.

"Shannon." Beecher heard Ryan moan his wife's name, caught up in a dream, in another time, another place. Toby wished he could join Ryan in the reverie, being somewhere else that is, but here, he was at least changing his recollection of this act to something more agreeable rather than the ugly convictions that Vern brought upon him.

Beecher pulled at Ryan's solid cock with his mouth, going harder as the Mick guided him along. He wrapped his supple tongue around the hardened shaft, darting his tongue across the small cleft that was weeping with pre-come. He tasted Ryan, felt his rigidity in his mouth. As Ryan pushed Beecher's head down further, the blond man opened his throat, letting him plunge his entire length deep within the confines of Toby's tight passage.

"Oh, God... That's fuckin' good." Ryan thought to himself; he pictured Shannon's face, funny, her hair looked lighter than he remembered. 'Must've dyed it.' He thought. And she _never_ deep-throated. 'Always a first time.' Ryan dragged his fingers down Shannon's face, over her cheekbones, and buried his fingers in her thick sideburns.


"FUCK!" Ryan's eyes flew open and he was startled to be greeted by Beecher performing these amazing ministrations to him. Frantically sucking, taking in Ryan's entire manhood, tightening his throat to increase the pressure. "Get the fuck off me, Beecher!"

Ryan pushed Toby away hard, sending him tumbling from the bunk onto the hard, concrete floor. He pushed himself back against the corner of his bunk and the pod. 'Fuck.' Ryan was glad to have Beecher's mouth off his cock, another _man's_ mouth off his cock, but the feeling, it had been.. shit, Ryan couldn't remember the last time he got head that good. His emotions raged within him. He wasn't a faggot, but he had _needs_. He thought he could deal with the desires in his own way, the heroin, the masturbating, but feeling his prick encased in that warmth, fuck, it was mind-blowing.

Ryan paused, trying to decide what to do. He closed his eyes again and instead of picturing Shannon's head controlling his organ, it was Beecher's face that burned in his mind.

"Sorry Beecher." Ryan whispered, choking out the words he so seldomly used. It killed inside to admit that some part of him; deep inside got off on seeing Beecher's intense face mouth fucking him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Beecher grabbed the bunk and pulled himself from the floor. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt, still tasting Ryan's musk on his lips. "You're not a faggot." He mumbled.

Beecher started to back away, but not ashamed of what he had just done. He had made Ryan happy, if only for the few sweet minutes he was far away dreaming. As he started to climb back up to his bed, he met with resistance, his ankle being tugged at, pulling him back down to the lower bunk. "What, you want me down there so you can punch me?" Beecher muttered dryly.

Ryan didn't speak, he continued to pull Beecher down, back onto his bed, and back down between his legs. "Finish me, Beecher." He breathed the words so softly; the blond had to strain to hear them.

Confused, but wanting to please Ryan, Beecher nudged Ryan's legs apart and laid himself down between the strong muscles. He sucked Ryan's cock back into his mouth and dug his fingertips into the well-toned thighs. Ryan grabbed the back of Beecher's head and fucked his mouth for all it was worth. All thoughts of who, what, why, lost in the carnal desire to be pleasured, fulfilled.

As Beecher felt Ryan's cock seize in his mouth, he relaxed his throat and readied himself for the oncoming release. Ryan's hips bucked, further pushing his pelvis into Toby's face, and he embedded his face into his pillow as an animalistic roar escaped his body. Come pulsed down Toby's throat choking him, making him drink it up as fast as Ryan could emit it. He gripped Beecher's sideburns and held his cock deep within his willing throat.

Toby swallowed each drop of come, like a man starved of water for days. Hot, salty, but sweet. Tasted good, nothing like Schillinger's nasty spunk. He let Ryan's softening cock slip from his mouth pushing himself backwards as it dropped against Ryan's slick, sweat covered abdomen. Ryan needed his space, needed to figure out what just happened.

Beecher slipped back onto his bunk and crawled between the cool sheets. His dick ached, and he needed release. He_wanted_ Ryan to do that for him, but what had just happened was all that Beecher could ever expect Ryan to let him do.

Ryan wasn't a faggot. Ryan was just lonely. Toby closed his eyes and gripped his shaft, imagining Ryan's hands and fingers working his organ instead of his self-satisfying.

"Don't fuckin' tell anyone anything, got it Beecher?"

"Yeah, I won't."

"Cuz I'm not..."

"A faggot." Beecher finished the sentence for the Irishman.


Beecher knew. Ryan was no faggot. Ryan was just lonely.