Desperate Intent DESPERATE INTENT
 by Waffles
 
 ======

 "Lockdown!"

 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.

 "Lockdown!"

 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.

 "O'Reily?"

 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. 

 "O'Reily?"

 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?"

 "Yeah."

 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.

 "O'Reily?"

 "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?"

 "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.

 '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.

 "Thanks."

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

 End