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Braced against the workbench, Mitch's arms and legs shake badly. The air in the basement is thick with hunger and the weight of the guards' rapt attention is suffocating, quashes the air from his lungs. Three merely watch, the rustling of fabric and the rhythmic clink of jostled belt buckles as they pull themselves out of their uniform trousers, masturbating to the sight of Mitch's vulnerable body, caught between the bench and their leader. He's naked and trembling and the guards' breaths are ragged. It turns the air stifling and hot. The fourth guard, Vogler, holds seniority in both rank and in sadism. His towering frame at Mitch's back casts a shadow that stretches the length of the bench and Mitch swears his skin burns with the close heat of his body. Vogler's shadow shifts in Mitch's peripheral vision as he reaches down between Mitch's legs, Mitch keeps his eyes fixed on the journal splayed open before him. He barely remembers how to speak, the words all tangled up in his throat, congealed with humiliation. It all swells together, an acrid paste against which he can't swallow.
The cool black length of the guard's heavy truncheon trails Mitch's bare inner thigh.
"Keep reading," commands Vogler, that trademark calm to his tone. He murmurs it lowly, so eerie it prickles Mitch's skin into goosebumps. There's a threat beneath the easy smooth of his voice, sickly sweet and yet barely veiled. Mitch is, in turn, the leader of his own group, the small band of friends he has made in this place, other young men who aren't innocent at all and yet don't deserve Vogler as their predator. The prison has no policy about withholding stationery should an inmate wish to keep their own diary. He was here for six hours before the guards advised that they'd remove his journal to vet it each morning and return it when they saw fit to do so. When Mitch complained about them keeping it too long, they told him they'd like to test a new tactic.
"C-come on, Vogler," Mitch tries, the tight strain of dread in his voice. "You've read it already, I know you have. Don't make me."
"It's your private property," Vogler murmurs, almost sweet, a seductive quality to his voice that sends Mitch's stomach into sharp, aching free fall. Vogler brings his truncheon to the swell of his ass, slides the plastic between his cheeks and laughs softly when Mitch shudders abruptly. "We'd never read a prisoner's diary. This institution has nothing to act so suspicious about, do we, boys?"
His men gasp and moan their easy ascent to him. Mitch's grimaces at the sound of it, their vile arousal at the sight of their leader as he traces the cleft of Mitch's ass with the thick, blunt edge of the truncheon. At Mitch's hesitation, his muscles locked tight, the guard clicks his tongue in faux disapproval.
"Put it this way," he offers, working the truncheon between the twin globes of Mitch's cheeks, so thick that when for a moment, he releases it, it stays held in place by the planes of Mitch's trembling flesh. The guard laughs before he goes on. They all do, and Mitch burns crimson with shame, the threat of tears pricking hard at his eyes. He fights it. "The sooner you read to us, the sooner we're done with you. The longer it takes, the longer this lasts. It's not like my truncheon's gonna go soft on you, huh? I'll keep you here all fucking night if I have to. Is that what you want, boy?"
"No," Mitch concedes.
"No what?" the guard prompts, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his weapon. Mitch swallows hard, burning with hatred as much as with shame. In the outside world, Mitch is the respected youngest son of a powerful family. No one would ever dare touch him for fear of his mother and siblings.
"No, sir," he mumbles, receives a smattering of laughter and moans from his unwanted audience. It's not that he longs to die in that moment, but he suddenly yearns for unconsciousness at best, to dissolve beneath water, to seek solace at the bottom of an ocean — not dead but rather in wait. He'd rot if it meant getting out of this, but he knows there's no chance of escape.
"That's a good boy," the guard murmurs, working the truncheon roughly yet deft until its thick head rolls over his entrance. "Now fucking read."
Powerless to disobey, Mitch does as he's instructed. Tonight's passages were never meant to be shared. Trapped underground in the bowels of the prison, four guards getting off to his pain while his new friends take restless sleep in their cells, Mitch reads two paragraphs aloud. The first is a searingly private account of how desperately he misses his family. His mother and the safety of a street full of siblings. It receives smattered laughing and faux drones of sympathy. The second is full page of mindless revenge fantasies, notes so desperate they're messy and squint, unrealistic reams of how he'd break out of this prison and destroy it with the guards still inside. Scribbled in the depths of the night and then stuffed beneatht he boards of his mattress, it had simply felt cathartic to expel, less a plan and more like a bloodletting. When read aloud to the subjects of his imagined scheme, the fantasy feels exposing on a visceral level, childish, like peeling back his own skin and letting the guards press their fingers into the mess of his wounds.
The truncheon, without lubricant, should not be able to enter him, but the guard at his back listens close to his fantasy, hums low in his throat as though considering critiquing it, the truncheon poised and pressing at his hole all the while, enough to keep Mitch tight with dread.
"Very imaginative," says Vogler, voice almost flat but for the crackling embers of smugness laced into it. "So much anger in such a powerless body."
Mitch barely has time to be angered by his words. Vogler forces the truncheon inside him, dry as the workbench Mitch clutches in horror. He puts a terrible shove of hard muscle behind it, grunting with the force of the rape. Mitch startles violently. His muscles lock tighter. Eyes wide and stomach lurching, he wails. None of the guards try to quiet him any. If the sounds of his agony drift up through the vents, it will not surprise his fellow inmates to hear it. On the nights when the guards pick on somebody else, Mitch hears their suffering in turn, distant echoes on the air like flickering spectres. He's certain that's how the guards like it.
"Stop!" he screams. Vogler at his back shoves the truncheon further into him, working it deep with rough turns of his wrist. He's savage, drunk on the violence. It's something Mitch recognises easily. Pain twists through him and he writhes in its grasp, voice cracking under the strain of his cries. "Please! Please stop! Oh fuck no! No! No no no!"
The words dissolve into sharp, ragged sobs and Vogler punishes his shivering flank with a merciless open hand blow. Mitch jolts as the slap echoes hard against concrete, the sound rushing back to him, ringing in his ears.
"I told you," Vogler starts, breath vile and hot on his skin, his lips at Mitch's ear, "to read, you worthless little bitch."
The truncheon inside him — its movement aided by a thick, awful wetness, the scent of copper tinging the air — Mitch forces his eyes back into focus and reads from what's left of his entries. He was stupid, he sees now, to have detailed the abuse, to have committed his first night in this hellhole to paper. He reads it back now to the man who first hurt him, who laughs in his ear and presses flush to his back, who dips down to trail his tongue along his skin, upwards from his shoulder blade to the nape of his neck. He sucks aching bruises up the length of Mitch's neck until Mitch is groaning through gritted teeth and blood is pushed out of him with every rough thrust of the truncheon inside him, like he's bleeding too heavily to contain. Mitch's family is powerful, formidable even, and Mitch is going to die here in the bowels of a second rate prison, raped to death on a thick piece of plastic? Humiliation turns him small, rushing through his pounding blood and looming over his violated body. Inescapable, his fate whether he wants it or not.
Vogler nips roughly along the edge of his jaw. All the while, Mitch's voice shakes as he fights back tears, vision blurring with his stubborn struggles against it as he reads the account of what happened, what was done to him. He reads in a stuttering, trembling tone, about the first time he was forced to his knees here, how it hurt to have his jaw forced open so wide against his will, how he'd have bitten the guard's cock if he hadn't been so terrified. How it wasn't the first time he thinks he thinks he was violated, but it was certainly the first time he was present for the evidence, mind racing instead of delerious and tired, conscious instead of half drugged. Wetness tracking slow, almost lazily down his thighs, he reaches the page and the line he dreads most, the line that surrenders to Vogler the last of the power he's mining for. He wishes he'd kept the words in his head, and now here they are — spilled on the air for these monsters to hear.
"H-he…." Mitch starts, swallowing hard as the truncheon strikes that traitorous part of him that drags his molten hot blood flow south, cock thickening under the lip of the table, precome wetting its underside. "He ruined….he ruined my life that night. I-I know, somehow, that no matter what I choose to do when I'm free again, or how easily my family accept me and I slip back into my role, Henry Vogler has utterly r-ruined me."
"Oh fuck," breathes one of the guards behind him, a tightness in his voice before he cries out in ecstasy. Another guard grunts as he pumps into his fist. The others merely gasp between revenant moans, as though Mitch's undoing is some kind of altar, as though they're worshipping Vogler through the medium of Mitch's sickening rape.
"Ginny Hadley's favourite son," Vogler muses. Mitch bristles at the mention of his mother's name, as though its utterance could summon his family here and prove to them his weakness, his tangible worthlessness. "Her bravest weapon, her fiercest fighter. Taking it for me like a good little boy, trying so fucking hard not to cry."
He punctuates 'hard,' by reaching under the table and curling his fingers around Mitch's erection.
"Rock hard," he whispers, breath sharp as a blade. He squeezes Mitch's cock and it throbs under his fingertips.
Terror and shame crash through Mitch in tandem. He veers backwards in instinct's breathless vice, frantic to escape Vogler's touch. It only deepens the reach of the truncheon inside him, and Vogler's laugh slices through to his deepest wounds as Mitch trembles and gasps, obscenely impaled, precome slipping from his slit in fat globs as Vogler molests him in earnest. The produce of his arousal slathers Vogler's fingers and slicks Mitch's cock in turn. Vogler plays with him expertly, tugging and stroking, lifting his knee to grind it into his testicles, until the pleasure grows louder than the throbbing pain and Mitch feels his flush drain with the terror of coming. The threat of release coils tight in his belly, warm in a way that breaks something inside him, like a sickening flash of dejavu. On a previous occasion, upon waking groggily, Mitch found evidence of spend in his underwear to coincide with the bite marks and bruises, with the terrible ache deep inside him. Worse than the notion that he'd been drugged and raped was the proof that his body, even lost to the posion, had responded positively to such violation. He didn't know for sure who had used him that day, but whoever it was now walks through the world with the knowledge that Mitch Hadley came when he forced him. That knowledge, somehow, was the most scathing of all of it.
"Please don't make me come," he whispers, his shivering body improsened between Vogler and the workbench, his mind languishing between present and past. "Y-you can't. I'll do anything. P-please. You can't make me."
Vogler stills for a moment, the baited breath of his guards, the air gone thin with their vile anticipation. For a moment, all Mitch hears is the pounding of his pulse and the sharp, ragged bursts of his breath. Vogler scoffs then, his whole body jostling with it. He pivots into motion, wrenches the truncheon from Mitch's bruised, aching insides. The pain is so vibrant it curdles to nausea, and Mitch knows better than to feel any relief. Blood on the floor and his cock leaking shamefully, throbbing where it touches the underside of the workbench, released from Vogler's tightening grasp at least. Vogler lets the truncheon clatter hard to the floor, bends Mitch over the table with one hand and pins him down firmly to the bench. Fingers splayed between Mitch's shoulder blades, Vogler opens his belt, cool metal against Mitch's skin as he drags down his trousers and lines himself up with the brutalised gape of his hole.
"Break for me," Vogler orders, tilting his hips forwards, the head of his cock slipping in just enough that its lip tugs and teases Mitch's rim. "I know you want to. I can hear it in your voice. Pathetic little cock slut. My terrified whore."
Mitch is whimpering, gasping for air as his pulse clangs so hard he feels it reverberate back to him through the wood of the workbench. Vogler fucks him with only the head of his cock, lets his hole grip and constrict around the most sensitive part of him. The worst of it is somehow the sounds of his pleasure, his abuser groaning in ravenous ecstasy as he keeps him pinned down while he takes him, hips stuttering, breath catching.
"Cry for me, boy," the guard commands. "I want you to fucking shatter while I rape you."
"N-no," Mitch gasps, and the guard falters suddenly. He stills for a moment, indignant, digs his nails into the sweat damp flesh of Mitch's back.
"Fine then," he answers. "Fight it if you have to, if that makes you feel tough. But you don't get to win here, pretty boy. I'll beat every ounce of stubbornness out of you. I'll make you bleed and come and piss yourself in front of my men, your new friends, the bigger inmates who like to fuck up the weak ones to make up for being used when they got here. No one likes to be the littlest bitch, but you're the bottom of the food chain here, boy. You're nothing but a tight little hole to fuck. We'll ruin your life a whole lot more, then we'll send you on your way and never think about you again. Not for a fucking nanosecond. Until then, though…"
Vogler shoves deeply inside of him and Mitch's world bursts into agony. His mouth falls open but he cannot scream, cannot gasp, cannot beg. Pain sears through him, blinding him, choking him. Vogler lurches into quick, savage rhythm, fucking him desperately over the workbench. Mitch's chest is pinned flush to the pages of his journal as the other guards draw closer to watch. One of them reaches down to stroke the sweaty mess of his curls. Mitch startles, writhes as if to pull away but the fingers rubbing circles into his clammy scalp only recede when Vogler growls, "Wait your fucking turn, Snyder."
Mitch holds back tears all the while. Quivering lip and shuddering breaths, something splintering horribly in the husk of his chest, he breaks bit by bit yet he fights it. For every dreadful satisfaction these monsters will mine from his body — first Vogler who spills his seed in his guts and then steps aside to offer his men the same bounty — he will not let them see him break. Not here, not like this, not tonight.
Not when they're done with him, four spent men standing over his exhausted body, admiring the bite marks that pepper his chest and the bruises already tender and black on his thighs, his buttocks, the welts crawling over them from the lashes of the final guard's belt. Not when they rip out the page from his journal that details his first night in the prison. Not when Vogler leans over him, glaring, crumpling the pieces and forcing them into his mouth. Not when he clamps Mitch's jaw shut and plugs his nostrils shut with thumb and forefinger to make sure he swallows them down. Not when they march him back to his cell and laugh at his limping, his shivering. Not when Vogler shoves him down onto his cot and his hand finds his cock under the grey of his prison sweats.
"Don't make a sound," Vogler whispers, stroking him to hardness as his men smirk from the other side of the bars. "It's just you and me, baby. Just you and me. Come for me, Hadley. Show me how much you like being stuck here. You moaned with my cock in your ass - did you know that? You sounded so fucking high on it. It's okay to get off on it. It's just you and me. Close your eyes, they're not here. I've got you, Hadley. You're safe here. You're safe."
When Mitch spills his load he turns his face from the others and buries his face in Vogler's neck. He shudders and gasps, breathes in the musk of him as he shivers and sobs and fights to be quiet.
"Good boy," Vogler murmurs, stroking him through the powerful jerks of the aftershocks, carding fingers through his hair with his strong, free hand.
When it's over, when the high of his orgasm shatters like glass, Mitch peers up to meet Vogler's gaze, horrified. Vogler's lips curl into a thin, cruel smirk. Vogler spits into Mitch's face, a fat glob of saliva sliding down Mitch's cheek. There was a time when Mitch would have sent his fist into somebody's skull for such an infraction. The guards in the corridor stifle their laughter and Mitch wipes his face shakily with the back of his wrist. He says nothing, he can't even look at them.
"Pathetic," snarls Vogler, cot creaking as he stands. He saunters cooly across Mitch's cell. Three short steps from the cot to the bars, which clang shut with a horrible finality after him. Mitch stares at the cracked, concrete ceiling above, drifting into shock attonight's sick atrocities. When the guards' footsteps recede, the heavy door closing at the end of the corridor, Mitch expects to dissolve into tears. He waits for it, never more certain of anything.
Instead he lies motionless atop his thin mattress, broken springs pressing into his spine, semen cooling where it stains his ill-fitting prison shirt. He's numb where he ought to be devastated, exhausted where he wants to be livid. Vogler's touch, the rapes, the abuse from his men, it's all louder in his mind than any notion of future, than the hope of coming freedom he keeps using to anchor himself.
Tonight, when he sleeps, he doesn't dream of his family, his friend, of any passionate embrace from his lovers. He can't allow them into his mind when it's like this. He wants to dream of the end of his sentence, but doesn't. Tonight, though it sickens him, his mind belongs only to Vogler, and his journal lays untouched on the floor.