The Toybox

Fragile; that was how Mick Daniels finally chose to describe the boy that he escorted past the rows of dark cells. The teen shuffled, tripping occasionally on his leg irons. Daniels gripped the boy's arm so tight that he could feel the heat of a forming bruise, the over-caffeinated officer stricken with paranoia that the prisoner would slip his handcuffs; it wouldn't be another two days until the pair from the Juvenile Detention Center would arrive. They'd had to special order them and a uniform after the 18-year-old was convicted of killing a family of four while drunk driving on prom night. He'd needed to stand on a phone book at the murder trial. Cute little Noah Blanche wouldn't be up for parole until he was in his 50's.

"You know where you're going?" Daniels taunted, digging deeper into the boy's arm. He could practically touch his thumb to the second knuckle, there was so little of the kid to grip.

Noah shook his head, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He'd been crying when the guard had unlocked his cell and plucked him from his bed. He stumbled beside the man on shaky, fawnish little legs. His pants sagged and fell, pooling around knees, which bent in awkward desperation to keep them from falling any further as he was dragged.

Mick smiled, his mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth.

"For such a pretty little thing, you ain't too sharp." Noah sure was pretty; petite, girlish, with smooth pale skin. He's been wearing eyeliner and a band t-shirt in the mug shot. His hair was slightly longer than it'd been in the picture, dyed black to cover where there'd one been purple stripes, bangs over one eye. Underneath he was baby-faced except for his sunken-in eyes, surrounded by eyelashes so long that Mick wondered for a second if the kid had mascara on. The grey was a fitting color for the fear and despair in them, but Mick would have liked him for him to be blue-eyed. Still, the kid was hypnotizing. He dragged him in silence to the laundry room, where a diverse group of inmates was seated around a table.

Cards.

Poker Chips.

Noah understood now. Mick smiled, amused by the change in the boy's expression, the way his body language switched from docile to tense. His eyes opened to perfect circles, counting the chips in the white and pink checkerboard linoleum of the laundry room floor.

"I'll raise you the top bunk in this little punk's room, all in." Mick's voice echoed off the appliances. The lights flickered, bathing everything in a dirty yellow, swinging slightly with the hum of the industrial washer. Noah felt a cold rush over him, entranced by the buzzing machines. He tried to find rhythm in it, to distract himself from the conversation. In his mind, everybody's words were out of synch like in an old, badly-dubbed Godzilla movie. Lewd questions fired at him from directions that he refused to try and follow.

"Ever suck a cock?"

He focused on the shuffle of poker chips as they were pushed into the middle of the table.

"Bet you do, don't you faggot?"

Noah felt Mick finally release his arm. The blood shot back into it painfully, he hadn't even realized it's gone numb. He looked down at his feet, each one covering a single tile, separated by a single tile. He counted seventeen tiles from himself to the door. Thirty from himself to the table. Fifty to the closest washer. He counted the tiles from his feet to every landmark in the room, trying to ignore the jeers. Trying not to keep track of the game.

He practically snapped his neck when he heard one of the men cheer. He had a shaved head, and looked like he was maybe in his 30's. He had the numbers 88 on his knuckles, and was covered what Noah thought was an excessive amount of swastikas. Not that he would say it; this guy looked like he'd spent the last 20 years lifting weights. He was tall enough that he had to crouch to sit on the folding chair. Standing up, the enormous skinhead walked over and approached the boy.

"I asked you a question before, sweetie," he spoke with sarcastic patience. "You ever suck a cock?" Bending down to his level, he took little Noah's smooth face in his hand. There was no hint of stubble on the kid's cheeks, still too young to grow a beard. Hus features seemed to crack and open and leak at the question.

A sharp, whining sound came from inside him as he uttered a short "Oh God, no." The skinhead laughed first, the others quick to join him. Noah's lips trembled, red and pouty and vulnerable. His crying had already gotten them nice and wet.

The skinhead put his hand on the kid's narrow shoulder. There was no resistance as he pushed Noah down to his knees. His face was blank, eyes cancelled and staring off past his assailant to read the serial numbers on a dryer. They were too blurry from the tears to make it out, but trying distracted him from the fact that the guy's hard cock was out of his pants. He felt a large, powerful hand grip his hair so hard that he cried out.

"Fucking look at it!" The pain was immediate, and he wondered how much pressure it would take to detach a scalp. He could imagine it ripping clean off, and terrified of the possibility, stared down the barrel of the skinhead's throbbing member. It was as thick as his wrist, and so swollen that it was purple. He guessed it was as long as a floor tile and a half, eight or nine inches. A plump blue vein climbed the underside in a softly curving half-spiral, leading to a defined head. Little beads of pre-cum cascaded down it like beads of sweat. He'd never seen another man's hard dick before. The sight intimidated the boy, who opened his mouth to gasp in pain when his hair was pulled even tighter.

He gagged, surprised, as the thick organ was shoved all the way into his throat. He tried to resist, but the skinhead was too strong. His face was pulled flush against the man's abs, eyes closed and pressed against wither side of his belly button. He could feel himself trying to scream, suffocating as the head pushed deep down his slender virgin esophagus. The impossibly thick cock bruised the tender, punk, wet tissue, spasms of pleasure echoing through it as Noah choked. His lips were stretched obscenely around the base, buried in the thick black pubic hair. The scent of sweat and testosterone lingered in his nostrils.

His tiny wrists struggled against the cuffs, jerking in a tap-out motion. He was panicking, all he could think was no air, no fucking air, oh God. No fucking air. He tried to shout it, but with the man buried in his mouth he could only grunt soft vibrations against the swollen flesh. He could feel it pulsing along with his head as his vision dimmed. Slowly Noah began to relax. His throat opened, allowing the man to force himself even deeper somehow. His hands stopped their struggling, fingers twitching pathetically as he gripped at the last edges of his life.

Just then, the Nazi withdrew. The boy stared off into the nothingness, jaw slack. He made a pathetic wheezing noise as he sputtered back to life. His entire field of vision was blocked by the man's tattooed skin. The dark black arms of a swastika warped and bent jaggedly along the defined contours of his hard stomach. Suddenly, he felt his head jerked forward against the subtly twitching body with enough power to crack his nose against the flexing muscle. Noah snorted, sending wet, cherry-red splatters to pool and drip from the man's belly button. His gagging only made his throat tighter around the man, who thrust violently into the slick orifice, enjoying the slight resistance.

Noah started to turn blue again, hands flapping desperately against his back as if the cuffs were the only thing holding him back as the tattooed giant imposed his will on the helpless boy. His eyes drifted up to meet those of his assailant, pleading and violated. Broken. Submissive and helpless and oh fuck it was just too much; the skinhead let out a short grunt as his hot cum poured into the boy's throat. The release was so intense that he didn't even notice the boy had lost consciousness, jizz streaked with little ribbons of blood form his nose pouring from his half-parted lips.

The man withdrew, but forced the kid's mouth shut with one hand. Noah tried desperately to breathe through his bloody nose, to spit out the mouthful of thick salty cum trapped in his mouth. His sprayed a fine mist over the skinhead's tattooed knuckles.

"Swallow it!" the man commanded, giving his head a shake. Weakly, defeated, he obeyed. He felt it slide all the way down his throat and settle in his churning stomach; he was gonna be sick. To his relief, the skinhead put himself away, chuckling, "No way that was his first time, too good." He elbowed the officer next to him. "Wouldn't be fair if you didn't get a round," he smiled to Mick, who nodded and stood up.

"Please, no..." Noah begged. He felt tears threatening in his eyes again, but he knew they would do him no good; they were all going to take what they wanted from him unless he took a stand now. He felt the officer grab him effortlessly by the collar and lift him back to his knees. The boy clamped his mouth shut defiantly. Mick laughed at the pathetic sight; the emaciated kid, one shoulder fallen out of the collar of his oversized orange jumpsuit. Blood trailing down his tear-streaked, puffy face. Lips folded in on themselves to disappear into a pencil thin line, a shot, exhausted look in his too-wide eyes.

The officer's chuckle muted into a soft, controlled smile. He pushed two fingers into the kid's mouth, separating his barred teeth with only the slightest, most hesitant hint of resistance. He felt the hot puffs of breath quicken as the scissored his fingers to part his trembling jaw. With the other hand, he unzipped the fly of his uniform. He was slightly smaller than the skinhead, his cock an angry red color. It twitched visibly with the anticipation of that silky, narrow adolescent throat that his fingers were only centimeters from. He pushed them back further to make the boy gag, excited by the powerful spasm that rippled through Noah's violated mouth.

He wasn't even thinking when he did it. He bit Mick's fingers as hard as he could, feeling his teeth break the skin. He tasted blood, but couldn't figure out if it was his or Mick's. The officer pried his fingers free. With a chilling amount of restraint, he smeared the bleeding digit over Noah's visible eye. The boy whimpered softly, mumbling a timid chant of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as he shrunk back from the officer.

"You're pretty," Mick hissed, bringing his hand up to inspect his injuries. "That's why I'm gonna let you live to regret that."