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Written for the "Cuff 'em vamp 'em or just make 'em come already" kink challenge: http://www.livejournal.com/users/svmadelyn/233449.html
Shillinger has him over a workbench in the dress shop at Lardner. It takes four guys to hold him down. Struggling only makes it worse and it would be over a lot quicker if he just shut up and kept still, but at seventeen Chris thinks he's a bad-ass and he wants everyone to know it, wants them to remember no one gets Chris Keller for free.
Not just any prag. Not this booty.
Schillinger goes first. Schillinger always goes first. He yanks Chris's trousers to his knees, rips his boxers right down the side seam.
Chris is still trying to wrestle his arms free when he feels cold fingers on his ass sliding along the crevice, parting his cheeks in anticipation of Schillinger's 'superior', Aryan manhood. When it comes down to it, it's all about the dick. Whose dick is in who. Who's fucking who over, like that proves survival of the fittest or something. It never occurs to them that if they were as superior as they claimed they'd have the good sense to be selective about where they put their dicks.
They're using the sewing machine oil. Chris has seen inmates pocket a bottle or two of the stuff when the shifts change. Lube is a coveted commodity in Lardner. Chris thinks he should be grateful they bothered but he's too busy trying to bite the wrist of the big guy with the goatee who's cutting off the circulation in Chris's arm.
"For fuck's sake," Schillinger says. "Can't you hold the little fuck still?"
The big guy with the goatee leans both hands on Chris's arm, pressing his elbow hard against the table. Chris is so busy thinking about the discomfort he's momentarily distracted from Schillinger's fingers probing his ass. It doesn't last long. Schillinger has no patience for foreplay. He slides in, buries himself in Chris with one hard thrust. Chris cries out in pain, a noise so piercing it bounces off the hard surfaces of the work shop and comes back to him sounding like the cry of a wild animal.
"Shut him up," Schillinger says, between thrusts. A hand clamps across Chris's mouth. He has enough presence of mind to bite down hard. The owner of the hand says, "Fuck!" and Chris gets a fist to the side of the head. He tastes blood.
When Shillinger's finished the big guy with the goatee gets a turn and after that the guy with a tattoo of a bull covering his forearm. By the fourth successive cock in his ass he's barely conscious. There's blood in his mouth and in his eyes and his arms have gone numb.
Tomorrow he'll corner the big guy with a goatee in the library and he'll stab him with a filed down toothbrush. The day after he'll sweet talk one of the nurses and swipe a bottle of dillaudin while she's distracted. The guy with the tattoo of a bull will fall face first into his dinner tray, poisoned. They'll find the empty bottle hidden in the personal belongings of Schillinger's cellmate.
Schillinger will see fit to make him an offer.
Chris will remember how much he likes being the centre of attention.
Ronnie sits in front of the television, not watching. He leans back in his chair, looks up at the CO station. Chris takes a seat next to Ronnie, follows his line of vision up the stairs and pasts the hacks until he comes to rest on Toby and Said, arms and elbows leaning on the railing, deep in conversation.
"It's like being in a fish bowl," Ronnie says. Chris tears his attention away from Toby and Said and Ronnie nods toward the pod he shares with Toby.
"You know what's worse than being watched?" Chris says.
Ronnie grins. "Not being watched?"
"You got it," Chris says.
"I bet someone's always watching you," Ronnie says, his voice heavy with suggestion. Chris feels a stirring in his crotch and he can't decide if it's Toby or Ronnie's doing. Maybe it's neither. He's never needed a focus for a hard on.
Chris thinks he should get Ronnie to suck him dry. He thinks he should bend Ronnie over in the supply room while he fucks him in the ass. He's not sure Ronnie's been fucked in the ass before. A virgin. Chris smiles at the thought.
It doesn't last. Fucking Ronnie is just fucking Ronnie. Ronnie's a hot body and lately he's been all over Chris's cock so fast, Chris barely has time to get his pants off. Chris knows he should be pleased with such an enthusiastic devotee but in the end it's just Ronnie and it's just another blowjob and there's already too much routine in Oz.
What he needs is a show, something to bring the house down.
And just like that, he's struck with inspiration. While Ronnie is absorbed in Miss Sally, Chris taps the shoulder of one of Adebisi's homeboys, leans forward and whispers in his ear.
The homeboy grins. "You sick fuck," he says.
"Spread it around," Chris says. "Let's have a party." The homeboy whispers in the ear of the person next to him, relaying the message.
Chris gets to his feet just as the dinner buzzer sounds. He puts a hand on Ronnie's shoulder and says, "let's eat."
He's not really hungry so he pushes mashed potato around his dinner tray in between sneaking long looks at Toby two tables over. Toby's found a new project. Some mick that's just arrived in Em City, long and lean with light hair that flops in his eyes. He's all attitude, all bravado and swagger and a need to show everyone just how cool he is with incarceration. Ryan says the guy's straight but Toby's not bothered by technicalities. He learned that from Chris.
Toby is laughing at something the mick is saying. He's leaning into the mick's personal space, resting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that could be friendly but could also be inviting. Chris knows it well.
Toby looks across the room and catches Chris staring. They hold each other's eyes for a moment, neither giving anything away, and then a tray drops to the floor with a loud clang and the moment is broken. When Chris looks back, Toby is talking to the mick again.
Ronnie wolfs down his meal like it's actually appetising. He gestures toward Toby with his bread roll. "What's up with you and Toby?"
"What are you talking about?" Chris says.
Ronnie shrugs. "The way you were looking at him just now - like you wanted to take a piece out of him." Ronnie tears his bread roll into halves, keeps talking while he eats. "What's up with that? He seems like a nice guy."
"I don't like that prag playing with my stuff," Chris says. He slides his hand under the table and grips Ronnie's knee possessively. He wonders how long it will take before someone in Oz, Schillinger probably, gives Ronnie a Toby and Keller history lesson.
"I never picked you for the jealous type," Ronnie says.
"Guess you don't know me like you thought you did," Chris says.
Chris catches Toby looking their way again. He leans closer to Ronnie, presses his lips against his ear. "Got something special for you tonight," he says. "Meet me in the supply room after dinner."
Toby shoves his tray across the table, stands and leaves.
In Chris's experience, few hacks relish the thought of breaking up two guys fucking in the supply room. It reinforces their greatest fear, that standing between them and a high heeled, sequined gown wearing, gay pride flag waving queen is not so much committing a crime but getting caught. There but for the grace of god and all.
Which is why the supply room is Chris's preferred place of business. Ronnie is barely inside when Chris has him up against the wall, kissing him hard on the mouth, one hand against Ronnie's chest the other fumbling with the clasp on Ronnie's trousers.
"Kinda romantic, huh?" he whispers against Ronnie's neck.
"God, Keller, you're a fucking animal."
Chris spins Ronnie around and pushes him across the room so that he comes to rest against the desk on the opposite side. Chris comes up behind Ronnie and inches his trousers down over his ass.
"Chris..." Ronnie says, nervously.
"Shhhh..." Chris says, stroking the smooth skin on Ronnie's behind. "Trust me."
He tongues a line from Ronnie's ear to his neck, presses his knees into the back of Ronnie's legs, holding him against the desk. Chris undoes his own trousers and reaches inside, stroking his cock until it seeps cum. He spits in the palm of his hand and mixes lube the old-fashioned way. He strokes his thumb along the crevice of Ronnie's ass, massaging the rim until Ronnie groans.
And then the door clicks open and a murmur of voices fills the room. Chris looks up and smiles. Show time.
The voices don't escape Ronnie's attention. "What the fuck's going on?" he says.
Chris nudges his cocks against Ronnie's ass. "I invited some friends around to watch," he says.
"You're fucking crazy," Ronnie says, more than a little panic in his voice. He tries to twist himself out of Chris's hold but Chris's arm is at his back, holding him in place. Chris's shoves Ronnie harder against the desk so that Ronnie can barely move.
"Relax," Chris says. He leans forward and bites the lobes of Ronnie's ear. "What's worse than being watched?" he says.
"Not being watched," Ronnie responds, dutifully.
Chris laughs. "Kind of turns you on, doesn't it?"
He looks over at the small crowd: some of the homeboys, all the gays, and a couple of the bikers who get turned on by this sort of thing. The wiseguys, the Micks and the Hispanics might enjoy the show but none of them want to get caught watching. The Muslims and the Christians - forget about it. That just leaves the "others" and the others are conspicuous in their absence.
Chris uses his knees to push Ronnie's legs apart. He lubricates his cock with one hand and lubricates Ronnie's cock with the other. Ronnie grabs the edge of the desk with both hands.
Chris's nudges his cock into Ronnie. Ronnie tenses. "For fuck's sake, breathe," Chris says. He rolls his fist over the tip of Ronnie's cock, thumbs the edge. Ronnie breaths out and Chris edges inside him.
Ronnie moans loudly. Chris's smile widens. He pushes a little harder and Ronnie moans again. This time it's a strangled sound, like it's forcing its way out.
Chris feels Ronnie tensing again, resisting. He thrusts and Ronnie cries out. There are catcalls and cheers from the audience.
"Careful." Chris says. "You wouldn't want them to think you don't want me." He caresses Ronnie's neck, softly, a little tenderness to cajole him. "You do want me, don't you?"
Ronnie grunts. Forces out a "Yes" between clenched teeth.
"Good," Chris says, and he starts to move again. Another upward thrust, and then slightly down, working up a rhythm.
The audience murmurs and Chris looks up to see the door closing behind a newcomer. Toby. Chris watches him as Toby finds a spot at the back of the crowd, trying to look and not look at the same time.
Chris knew someone would tell him, thought he might even show up if his curiosity got the better of him. Whether he'll stick around is a mystery.
Chris feels the excitement in him build. It's just like he pictured: Ronnie supplicating before him, an audience to appreciate him and Toby watching with a look of disgust and envy.
Eventually, Toby meets his eyes and Chris smiles back, wickedly. He stops being careful and fucks Ronnie with abandon, still holding Toby's eyes, ignoring the moans of pain coming from Ronnie.
Remember what this felt like, baby? Remember how much you liked it when I bent you over the sink in our pod? Remember what it was like when I was inside you? Don't you wish this were you?
He wonders if Toby can read his mind, because he turns around suddenly and leaves. It's enough for Chris. He turns his attention back to Ronnie, steps up the pace until Ronnie comes all over Chris's hand. The gays applaud.
Chris finishes himself off while Ronnie's still trying to catch his breath. He withdraws and leaves Ronnie to deal with the cum in his ass, a novelty for first-timers.
They audience files out while Chris is doing up his pants. Chris plants a kiss on the side of Ronnie's mouth like a sting. "You were great, baby," he says.
"That was... uh..." Ronnie says.
Chris pats him on the ass as they walk out. "Wasn't it?" he says.
Outside the gays accost Ronnie. "That was so beautiful," one of them says. "I nearly cried." He pretends to wipe away a tear.
"See," Chris says, as the gays walk away. "Now you got groupies."
The buzzer sounds for the nightly lock down and Chris watches Ronnie walk back to the pod he shares with Toby. He notices Ronnie's slightly laboured stride and takes pride in his handiwork.
Toby looks at Ronnie and looks away again, like he can't stand the sight of him. Chris thinks he should find that satisfying but instead he feels vaguely empty, like something isn't finished.
Fucking Ronnie isn't fucking Toby, which, Chris admits to himself, is what's screwing with his brain. If Toby's learned anything from Schillinger he's learned you never trust the guy fucking you in the ass. Which is little compensation for the fact that Chris has only had one priority in Oz and his priority thinks Chris kidnapped his kids and murdered his son. Nothing he does makes up for that. Not even being Chris Keller, numbing the pain with sex, Chris's answer to everything. Nothing works the way it used to.
Chris sits on the floor of the pod and lights a cigarette. His podmate is already snoring. Somewhere close, two em city residents are having an argument. The yelling gets louder until eventually the hacks appear, their torches creating a dancing light display on the walls. The argument eventually dies down and the night goes quiet again.
Chris flicks the cigarette stub in the toilet and climbs into bed. He lies on his back, staring at the springs on the bunk above.
In the darkness no one can see him. In the dull grey of an Em City night, he ceases to exist.
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