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Beta'd by Erin.
Human Touch - part 1/10: "Lardner snapshot"
Schillinger's twisting his arm behind his back, and Chris just twitches the corner of his mouth a little.
He feels the other man's bulk pressing on his back; Vern's fingers are rapidly turning his wrist blue and he knows he's gonna have a (new) bruise by the next morning.
Schillinger's cock throbs - hot, wet and hard as an iron bar - into his thigh while Vern's spitting in his palm and stroking himself.
Great fucking choice in lube, Chris thinks, his sour sense of humor rapidly developing like a much needed self-defense mechanism. Actually, it had developed a long time ago, but...this situation requires constant use of it. Bitter irony and self-depreciative humor raised to an art form.
*Vernie* never uses anything else, and spit...well, spit is not exactly enjoyable for the guy that's getting fucked. In Chris' own personal experience.
Why the fuck Vern still feels the need to do THAT, Chris has no idea. They've already been doing this for more than six fucking months now, and Chris has been *broken into submission* - or whatever the hell Vern might have wanted out of him.
You'd think he'd cut him just a little slack...
(--'Petty Nazi bastard.'--)
He's a prag; HIS prag.
Everybody fucking knows that - *Keller* fucking knows that.
So: why the brutality?
He's got him where he wanted, on his fucking knees - acknowledging his own status.
So why in God's sweet name does he still have to BEHAVE like this?!
A small muffled grunt resonates in the fabric of the pillow Chris' face is shoved in:
"What a fucking moron..."
Thankfully, Vern is way more interested in thrusting his cock into the boy to give much of a shit to whatever Chris is saying.
He didn't care that much about what Chris had to say the first time he fucked him, either.
His silent pleas, the small sobs, had gone unanswered.
Not unheard, though...Vern enjoyed them all.
One by one though, the pleas, the sobs, the little raspy sound in the back of his throat - all had gradually disappeared; the only thing remaining was an ever-present hiss, whenever Vern would pin him down, spread and hike his hips from behind 'til he could almost hear the wishbone make a little cracking noise...
He's only keen on hearing that hiss, that aborted, painful gasp the 17-year-old ALWAYS delivers - uncontrollably - whenever Vern's shoving in deep and brutal.
He. LOVES. That. Gasp.
It feels like breaking him all over again, every time they fuck. A conquest after a conquest after...
'Cause that's the downside of pragging...after a while, the initial force, the energy, dissolves into everyday prison life boredom.
The bitch - YOUR bitch - behaves accordingly (well, almost always...) and you feel fulfilled, accomplished.
A (married) MAN.
Which is okay by Vern's standards.
But...that's not enough.
Never is. Nothing is...
So a little distraction is not something one should ever ignore: mean, demeaning words, just to see his eyes darken a little.
Grabbing him by the wrists and forcing him on his knees when there really is no need to - just to see him deliver that trying-not-to-look-too-terrified, animal-like grin - the blood clot on the inside of his lower lip from where Chris keeps biting down hard whenever he is nervous or scared or...whatever.
(Something that happens quite often.)
Smacking him from time to time - to see the anger Vern knows is lurking inside the young man, sparkling in his eyes for a second.
Yep, that anger, the rage he sometimes senses in Keller is probably what got him thrown in Lardner in the first place.
The fact that he somehow manages to keep it under control...well, *that* is the thing Vern takes credit for, above everything else.
He is the one who's taught him to keep his cool, or get the fuck out of his cell, from under his hips, be on his own and just fucking DIE. Because - a kid with absolutely no affiliations like Keller in a place like Lardner (three quarters full of niggers, the other quarter - only-God-knows-what) could never get out alive, no matter how much he'd suck and fuck and...kill.
Something that - unlike the first two - he seems to be a *virgin* at. Chris Keller's never killed anyone; he's probably never even tried to.
Vern's seen it on his face, when two idiots in the cell block started cutting each other: there wasn't the usual boredom, that apathy concerning everything that doesn't touch you - directly or indirectly - in his eyes.
He had watched the entire scene with...not fear - exactly - but...uneasiness.
Like - for a moment - he actually gave a shit. Which was weird, considering he didn't know any of them.
That sudden realization had made Schillinger gloat with pleasure; he'd found another soft spot in him, which only came once more to show what a good choice Keller was.
The kid was so sloppy sometimes it almost gave Vern the proper ammunition to twist his guts and rip through that protective shallow skin of his - rummage straight into his insides.
Just like every time he came inside him.
The same jolt of power - the only thing Vern Schillinger could admit ever being addicted to.
It. Felt. AMAZING.
Just like right now, thrusting hard and fast into the boy, feeling the limp body underneath him automatically, uncontrollably shudder every time Vern pushes a bit harder; every time he feels the need to bite Chris' nape just like an animal immobilizes his mate during sex.
Everything feels so RIGHT, the actual gender of the person underneath his hips doesn't even matter anymore.
Keller - just like everybody else he's ever fucked - is his. With every cell in his body.
Except that...(he's not.)
*Finally*, Keller thinks, when he feels the other man holding his breath and spasming the moment orgasm kicks in.
It doesn't matter Chris ISN'T there yet; it never does to Schillinger. And...it probably is the most appropriate thing, considering. The *right* thing.
Vern slowly lifts himself off the other man's back, roughly stroking Keller's hair for a second.
He doesn't tell him anything, he rarely does.
Sex for Schillinger - Chris has grown to believe - is not exactly as NORMAL as the other man likes to let him think. And...that's a weakness; or - at least - that's what Chris thinks.
He turns on his left side and keeps his mouth shut, even though his limbs ache and his wrist seems paralyzed with pain. As he senses Schillinger getting in his own bunk and rapidly falling asleep, Chris starts stroking himself, trying to think of...Kelly, Tessie, fucking Jane Fonda in that movie he got to see just before landing his ass in this hell hole.
One by one - images, sounds and scents of different women he's seen, known, kissed or fucked drip through his mind and body like water...and the thing - the ONLY thing - that sticks with him like glue is Schillinger.
His weight on Chris' back; his rough hands.
His not-exactly-funny jokes.
That fucking voice.
The smell of his sweat.
The taste of his cum.
The feel of his cock ripping through him over and over.
Chris jerks off frantically, almost whispering the names of the women he's always wanted to fuck, the girls he's kissed, held and touched (and loved) - a long, long time ago...
Jesus, he was so stupid, so fucking stupid, so... How in God's name did he manage to get himself...
Red-rimmed dark-blue eyes glisten with tears as he comes with Schillinger's hot, all-engulfing breath settling all over his being.
He knows nothing's ever gonna be the same from now on. Just like he knew - or at least, kind of suspected - nothing would be the same the first time he got to taste another man's cum.
He didn't want to - then; he doesn't want to - now, either.
But...he did it anyway. He's doing it anyway.
For money, for protection, for drugs; for basic fucking human touch. Just to feel - to make himself believe - someone, *someone* gave a shit.
Someone GIVES a shit.
And...he's got another two and a half years of Vern fucking Schillinger.
(--'Yep, this prag business is turning out *beautifully*...'--)
---end of part 1/10---
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