Helping Hand     Helping Hand

 by Rustler

  

Pairing/Character(s): Augustus Hill/Eugene Dobbins Rating: R 

Written for TBoy in the 2004 OZ Magi holiday gift exchange. 

Request: Based on Hill's description of his conjugal visits as a
paraplegic to Jefferson Keane, I'd like an NC-17 rating (if possible)
showing Hill in a sexual situation with another inmate. 

Note: This story takes place during the S1 episode Plan B.  

  

Bach was a badass. Augustus closed his eyes and let the music flowing from
the strings of Eugene Dobbins's cello wash over and through him. For the
past couple of days, he'd taken to hanging out by the stage in the
cafeteria instead of the gym during the first free hour after work detail,
sitting transfixed as Dobbins worked that concerto over and over again,
perfecting perfection. It was the fastest hour of the day, but the music
stayed with him, replacing the jumbled cacophony of basketballs bouncing
on the gymnasium floor, the clank of iron from the weightlifting cage, and
the shouted, boastful trash-talk of inmates in his mind. Those were all
sounds that belonged to the world of Jackson Vahue and the kind of school
yard, peer pressure, "prove-you're-my- brother" bullshit that had almost
gotten Augustus hooked on heroin again. But listening to Dobbins practice,
man... that was like the soaring sounds of freedom. Free will. Potential. 

And he liked Dobbins. For a guy who was as famous within the world of
classical music as Vahue was in basketball, Dobbins was remarkably down to
earth, easy to talk to. He just seemed approachable in a way that Vahue
never did. Augustus remembered the oddly confessional conversation they'd
had on Dobbins's first day in Oz, when the charm of the concerto drew
Augustus to the stage to introduce himself. It was weird -- he didn't know
jack shit about classical music or instruments or anything, but right from
the beginning, something in Dobbins's playing had connected. 

"It sure is beautiful," Augustus had said, tentatively reaching out to
stroke the deeply toned wood of the cello. 

"Beautiful but lonely," Dobbins replied, wistfully. 

Wistful wasn't something you heard too often in the guarded confines of
Oz. Augustus was sure he had to be missing something obvious because of
his lack of knowledge about instruments. 

"Lonely? How does a cello get lonely?" 

"I have no one to play with." 

"You sound great by yourself. You don't need anybody to play with,"
Augustus said, surprised that anyone capable of creating the incredible
music he'd heard that afternoon could think he needed help. 

"I'm used to playing symphony orchestras, 90 to 100 musicians making
music. A cello by itself is just not the same." 

He'd smiled then, sadly, and Augustus got it. Because it wasn't the cello
that was lonely. And boy did Augustus ever get that. Loneliness was such a
constant that he hardly even thought about it anymore after nearly two
years here. Sure, Annabella visited as often as she reasonably could --
but it was such a long way from the city, and she had to work hard these
days to take care of things. And inside Oz, he had acquaintances but no
real friends. He had hoped -- a foolishly star-struck hope, maybe -- that
Jackson Vahue would be his friend. But the only things Vahue cared about
were basketball and white powder. 

It was all the worse for being in the damned chair. Even the most basic
self-comfort -- jerking off -- had become a hollow exercise when he
couldn't feel anything. And now that Governor Devlin had eliminated
conjugals...the one way Augustus had left to relate sexually was pretty
much gone. He read his issues of Hustler and he thought about his wife and
he fantasized about fucking, but it only seemed to call attention to the
lack. It was bad enough being disconnected from the people he cared about,
but being disconnected from his own body was almost unbearable. He did it
anyway, of course. At night before bed. And in the shower, which was about
the only sensual experience he had left. 

Thinking about his loneliness made him ache with it suddenly. He hoped it
would pass, like it usually did, but after a few hours had gone by and it
was still preoccupying his mind, he headed for the shower, grateful to
find himself alone there. He undressed quickly and got under the warm
spray. Water pouring over every inch of skin that could still feel
activated his sense of touch in some way, at least... but it was a poor
substitute. He stroked himself to hardness in the hopes that the physical
act of release -- even without the joyous rush that used to accompany it
-- did something to counter the knots of dejected frustration that
continually built up inside of him. 

"Hey, Augustus..." 

Augustus startled at the sound of Dobbins's voice behind him, and he
quickly folded his hands in his lap to cover what he'd been doing. "Hey,
uh, hey, man," he fumbled out, trying to sound nonchalant. 

"Oh, sorry," Dobbins half-laughed, a flush rising on his pale skin.
"Didn't mean to interrupt!" 

"Ah, fuck, wasn't interrupting much," Augustus muttered. Then he caught
the smirk playing at the corners of Dobbins's mouth as he finished hanging
up his towel. "What?" 

"Nothing," Dobbins was still blushing but still smiling too as he came
around to stand beside Augustus, turning on the neighboring shower.
"Just...that's what I was coming in here to do. It's kinda funny, is all."


Then Augustus laughed, disarmed. That was one of the coolest and most
refreshing things about Dobbins -- he didn't seem to feel the need to
bluster through all the bullshit macho posturing that would have gone on
with most of the guys in this place. It made Augustus feel strangely close
to him, right at the moment. 

"Well, ain't nobody in here but us chickens!" Augustus blurted out with a
shrug. 

Dobbins's hands stilled on the water taps. They were strong-looking hands,
with long, sensitive fingers, capable of -- accustomed to -- coaxing
beauty from an inanimate object. Suddenly, Augustus found himself speaking
again. 

"Dobbs, help me?" 

Dobbins hesitated for what felt like an eternity, partially cloaked in the
clouds of steam beginning to rise around him. Then he half-turned to face
Augustus, expression unreadable. He cleared his throat. 

"I, uh, thought you couldn't...?" 

"Feel? Nah, I can't. But if I could see someone besides myself again...
you know, maybe I could remember... imagine...." Augustus looked down,
shaking his head. "Ah, I don't know. It's stupid, forget it. I'm sorry, I
don't know what got into me to even ask something like that." He attempted
what he hoped was a dismissive laugh, even as his hands twisted in his
lap. "Don't want you to go thinking I'm all weird..." 

"No. No, it's okay." And the next thing Augustus knew, Dobbins was
crouched next to his chair. Augustus met his eyes warily, half expecting
physical retaliation -- this was Oz after all. But Dobbins's expression
was earnest, even kind. "Hey, you know, you're the only person in this
place who's been even halfway nice to me. " 

Augustus swallowed. "You got a gift, man." 

"Yeah," Dobbins laughed, "fat lot of good it's done me in here." 

Augustus didn't know how to answer that, so he said nothing, watching
Dobbins instead. He was a pretty handsome guy, in a surprising, boyish
way, especially now, with his hair wet and slicked back off his face.
Augustus wondered if that made any difference. 

Dobbins looked at him a moment longer, then something in his expression
changed -- in his eyes, the set of his jaw. He gave a barely discernible
nod. 

"Okay." 

"Okay?" 

"Just us chickens, right?" Dobbins broke off and looked back over his
shoulder to check behind them. "Look, I'll do us both. I'll close my eyes
and it'll be just like normal...plus one." 

Augustus swallowed again. "Dobbs, man, you don't gotta... I was just being
crazy..." 

Dobbins rolled his eyes. "Shut up and move your hands out of the way." 

Augustus speechlessly did as he was asked. Then he watched, amazed, as
Dobbins's hand came around the rail of the chair and into his lap. His
fingers were trembling slightly, but then he suddenly reached forward,
made a fist around Augustus's still semi-erect cock, and gently began to
stroke. Unable to help himself, Augustus slid a glance over toward
Dobbins's face. His eyes were indeed closed, a look of concentration
etched across his features. Then Augustus let his gaze travel downward, to
where Dobbins's other hand had gone to work, beginning to pull on his own
dick with the same rhythm he was using on Augustus. 

Augustus stared for another moment, then blinked and tried to put the
freaky unreality of what was actually happening out of his mind long
enough to take advantage of the opportunity Dobbins was gifting him with
here. He returned his attention to the action taking place in his own lap.
His dick, which seemed to be as reliable as ever, physically speaking, was
fully hard now, and Dobbins's hand seemed to respond to that with an
increase of speed. Augustus tried to forget for the moment just who the
hand belonged to and concentrated on the simple fact that it was a
different hand. 

God, how long had it been since there was a hand on his cock besides his
own? Months, since Annabella's last conjugal visit. And he watched
Dobbins's hand sliding up and down over him, twisting now a little on the
upstrokes, and he thought about that last conjugal: Annabella's musky
sweet scent and the taste and texture of her skin against his lips and
tongue. God, he missed Annabella. But that thought made him a little sad,
so he quickly subbed in some images of his favorite girl-girl spread in
the latest issue of Hustler -- that one shot of the sassy-looking brunette
straddling the fake redhead... yeah, that was a good one. He smiled,
running the Hustler images through his mind while he watched his dick get
worked over with increasing intensity. It was almost, almost like the
pleasure of actual sexual activity. And if there was a Bach concerto
running through his brain somewhere in there too, well, that was maybe a
little weird, but he could deal with it. 

Then Augustus heard a soft little groan from Dobbins beside him. He looked
over, then down, just in time to see Dobbins beginning to come, a slight
stutter to his stroking rhythm now as spurts of jizz streaked white
towards the tile floor, then swirled away in eddies of water flowing down
the drain. Augustus looked back up to Dobbins's face just as he opened his
eyes. For a moment, there was a kind of openness and vulnerability in
Dobbins's expression that hit Augustus in a place that surprised him. Like
he'd just had sex with this guy. Which he kind of had and kind of hadn't,
both at the same time. Just as that threatened to feel really
embarrassing, Dobbins held up the hand that had been working on Augustus. 

"Good timing," he said with a funny little smile, turning his hand to wash
the spatters of Augustus's come away in the shower. 

Augustus glanced down into his own lap, seeing the remaining goop in his
pubic hair. He was a little disappointed that he'd missed getting to watch
his own pop shot. But what the hell, that was a pretty small quibble, all
things considered. 

"Yeah man, good timing," he agreed. "Uh... thanks." 

"Don't worry about it," Dobbins said with a faint smile, getting back up
to his feet. "Gotta be able to give someone a helping hand once in a
while, right?" 

"Right," Augustus laughed. Then he heard the sounds of more people coming
into the shower area, and he and Dobbins both automatically seemed to turn
to the business of washing up, casually, like they'd just been having any
old conversation. But in the back of Augustus's mind, wheels were turning.


Jenkins, he thought with a private smile, as the name of the inmate who
played the trumpet in Unit B became clear in his memory. Augustus thought
he'd heard Jenkins play some pretty complicated stuff, maybe he'd be up
for a duet. Augustus decided he'd talk to him in the morning. 

*"Gotta be able to give someone a helping hand once in a while, right?"*
Dobbins had said. Augustus watched him turn off the shower and reach for
his towel. 

Right, friend. Absofuckinglutely right. 

--FIN--  Please send feedback to Rustler.