The Toybox

Noah was just tall enough for his toes to touch the floor from the pipe he was hung on. His arms were cuffed around it, twisted behind his back to put all of his weight on his shoulders. The laundry room was cold without his clothing; his prison uniform was crumpled in the corner, day-glow orange reflecting the dim lights. It was the closest thing to sunshine that he'd seen in at least twenty-four hours. Officer Daniels had been gone for at least an hour, escorting the other inmates back to their cells.

After they'd made him strip for them.

First, the six grown men had taken turns beating him; forcing him to his feet in order to take then next blow, then knocking him down again. When he finally spat his front teeth in the pool of Technicolor blood that still stained the cement in front of him, he'd refused to get back up.

He'd lifted his battered face pathetically from the floor, drooling his pleas for mercy, for death, before his body gave out and he lay back in the spreading pool beneath him. His swollen eyes had closed peacefully, even as the skinhead's footsteps grew closer. He'd stretched his neck out, blubbering a soft, wet appeal for the Nazi to, "end it."

That's all it would've taken, a quick heel; a flash of humanity. He'd felt the collar of his shirt tighten around his sore throat. Suddenly, he found himself dangling by his clothing.

Still unable to support his own weight, the boy had begun to strangle. For the first few seconds he hadn't fought; 'Good,' he'd thought. 'Nothing will hurt me again after this.'

Then his instincts had kicked in, and his bruised, shaking legs managed to hold him as the officer stepped around to uncuff him; first his arms, then his legs.

Little Noah hadn't had any fight left in him. His arms had fallen from behind him to hang limply at his sides. He swayed slightly, shifting his feet from one to the other.

The Nazi had stepped in front of him, armed with the back of a fully loaded open hand.

The boy's breathing had begun to race again; he'd groaned, too broken to even lift his arms and defend himself. His eyes screwed shut as he'd waited for it.

"Strip," the Nazi had ordered.

The cop had given him a light shove from behind, "Do as you're fucking told!"

And then those free arms had come up to peel the bloodstained t-shirt off of his skin. It had fallen away effortlessly once it was over his head.

He'd held it up in front of himself, eyes still shut, counting backward from One Hundred in his head. He'd promised himself it would all be over before he got to Zero.

It'd made a soft thud when it'd fallen to the floor, exposing his wiry frame for the world to see.

He was a figurine built from paperclips and plastic wrap, skin stretched transparent over little bird bones. He was a stegosaurus, showing off his spiked spine as they'd forced him to pirouette.

Noah's pants had fallen off next, taking the boxers with him.

"Cold in here?" An unfamiliar voice jeered from the direction of the poker table.

The boy had tried to cover himself, but Mick had grabbed both skinny wrists and forced them backward behind the him, cuffing him on either side of an overhanging pipe to await his private punishment.

"Gotta move your new roommate in, hang tight," the officer had joked, leading the other inmates out the room, locking the laundry room door behind him. Leaving the teen to anticipate his fate.

He was sure he'd been swinging for at least an hour, probably longer.

The damp, cold basement air caused his nipples to pinken and stand erect against his soft, white skin. They were raised against his exaggerated ribcage, which was speckled with soft goose-bumps that he suspected spelled obscene things in braille. His sinewy arms ached; he'd been two days away from getting his first tattoo before he was arrested.

He was coming back with alcohol.

He was going to get Stacy Mullins to suck his dick. The thought was so ironic that he almost wanted to laugh; he never thought he'd ever wind up on his knees with another man buried in his throat. He never thought he'd be hanging from a pipe in a prison laundry room, naked and beaten, waiting to be tortured.

The sound of the key turning in the lock must have been loud enough to wake up everybody in the prison; Noah was sure it was. He could hear Mick Daniels' slow, deliberate footsteps coming up behind him as a single beam of light cut through the darkness. The boy shivered; half with cold, half with anticipation. He could hear a sliding noise, something long being fed through something. Then the clambering of a belt buckle, and he let out a deep sigh.

He knew what he was in for even before the officer ran the folded leather over the notches in his spine. The man drew it back, bringing it down on the boy's flesh with skin-splitting fore. Noah made a hiccup noise as his stomach muscles contracted. His vision lit up white, and he felt dizzy with the pain. Without warning, his vision lit up again. This was before he even heard the first blow land.

"CRA-CRACK!" It was almost impossible how quickly the blows came, no time for recovery. The boy's cries were strangled as his body swung from the flogging. The smell of blood was distinct, almost suffocating in the windowless room. It was familiar to this place; stronger when it was so fresh, but lingering and irony and stale when it blended in with the cheap artificial "clean sheets" chemical that thickened the air.

The screaming echoed so loudly, so genuinely that it was a physically tangible thing. It took up space in the small room, along with both panting bodies. The buckle of Mick's belt had shredded into the soft skin in two parallel sweeping gashes, outlining his heaving shoulder blades. The kid looked like a fly with the wings ripped off. He buzzed dizzily, barely lifting his head when a third strike tore into him and the sound stopped from his ragged throat. It had faded to a low, dry wheezing.

"Please!" The teen's voice was hollow, salvaged from deep in the bottom of his lungs. It cut short when the belt came down again, this time across the back of his legs. His hands formed rigor-mortus fists, clinging to the chains that suspended him; he was sure he was going to chip a tooth. And from then on, with every blow, that's the form his screams came in. Desperate please that weren't even to his tormentor anymore, but ones that fell on the equally deaf ears of some higher power that had forsaken him.

He wondered if, millions of years from now, his name would be in some alien religion's book of Martyrs. He could barely feel the belt anymore, numb from adrenaline. He was just vaguely aware of pressure, and the separating of skin. It ripped and ran like nylon stockings, dribbling blood that spiraled down through the gap between his thighs.

Mick's erection pressed painfully against the fabric of his uniform. The heat coming off his swollen lap could fog a window; 'Fuck the card game,' he thought bitterly to himself. As he brought the belt down again, he decided that the only thing that kept him from burying himself balls-deep in Noah's hot virginity was the fact that he was a man of his word. A good man, he thought, splitting the skin once more.

The teen hung limp, like wet laundry on a clothes line. He swung with every strike, no longer trying to keep his footing, allowing his toes to scrape bare on the rough floor. For somebody serving life for multiple murders, the kid didn't have much fight in him.

The slack in his posture cushioned the blows slightly as the gashes began to overlap, staining his skin in ways that would never wash all the way out. The deepest two were almost half an inch across, right where his wings had been. The angel-faced kid was breathing shallow, so shallow Mick first thought he'd stopped breathing altogether.

He dropped the belt and walked around the boy so that he was standing in front of him. Noah's face was bright red, long hair matted to his face with the mess of tears and snot that glazed all the way down to his bony chest. Mick reached forward, fingertips spaced to fit perfectly in the cracks between the boy's ribs. His body quivered slightly at the touch, the skill pulling even more taught as if to crawl away from the contact. He didn't flinch though; Mick thought it was cute how focused the kid's eyes were on nothing, how desperately he was trying not to give the officer a reaction.

Mick's hand moved lower, tracing over the pronounced corners and ledges of the stretched-out body. He caressed the lip of the kid's hipbone, which formed a concave deep enough to fit a shot glass. He could feel the teen's racing heartbeat as he moved lower, to grip little Noah's embarrassingly hard cock. Teenagers were fun like that; any stimulation at all and the nervous things sprung to attention just out of spite. He took his free hand to lift the kid's chin, forcing him to look into his eyes as he started to pump away.

They widened, slipping around the room to focus anywhere other than back at those of the first other person to ever touch the sensitive organ. The cold air on his raw back sent waves of endorphins through Noah's body, which tensed violently. He felt like his hard-on was spreading through all of him, flushing his entire figure and bringing a humiliated heat to his cheeks. He sputtered the beginning of a breathy protest before he gave in, dropping his head to watch the man take himself out of his pants once again. Mick stepped forward to press it against the boy's, jerking them off against each other.

The kid sounded like he was breathing exclusively in exhales. A low moan croaked out as his jaw fell. He could feel the man throb against him on the off-beat of his own pulse. His nose twitched, rabbit-like, causing the dense peppering of dark, well-defined freckles around it to dance. The flinched was his restrained response to the shockwaves of pleasure that surged through him in electric, nauseous tickles.

"Please," he said again. This time it wasn't a raw scream; soft and foggy, seasoned with a subtle tone of self-loathing confusion. He tried to deny that he was moving his hips slightly, fighting the urge to buck into the officer's hand. His entire being ached in a way that his brain refused to fully process, but he couldn't deny that having somebody else's strangle hold pumping away at his virgin cock provoked a response from the adolescent body. The swelling feeling began to spread again, engulfing him in white hot light.

Mick tugged violently when the teen began to make soft, strangled noises. The chains above them rattled as the young body violently tensed, the hands once again wrapping into fists.

"Cum for me, princess," he growled, arm burning with soreness form the intensity of his pumping. He could feel himself on the edge, threatening to lose it when the boy twisted and whined and begged for the man to 'Please...oh god please stop... please, I'm gonna... don't make me..."

He felt the warm liquid shoot from the spent boy, coating his hand. He kept pumping while it spurted, using it to lubricate his efforts as Noah's girlish sigh caused him to shoot his own load into his chapped palm. He wiped the mess off in a handful of the kid's hair and watched the brittle little body trembled with the aftershock. It was obvious that he'd never had an orgasm at another person's hands from the stared down at his own cock like a foreign object, like he'd never noticed it before tonight.

Noah gulped for air, mumbling some unintelligible, vague apology to nobody in particular. It should have been Stacy Mullin. It should have been Stacy on prom night, her hair cemented in an elaborate braided up-do. Her pink sequins gown stained with whine, peppermint vodka thick on her breath. It should have been her lips, glossed with the "vanilla lip icing" that he'd watched her apply a thousand times in math class, pumping away at his timid boyhood.

Instead it was the cruel hand that undid the handcuffs. Finally, mercifully, the pressure was off his aching shoulders.

"Don't cry," Mick Sneered, escorting him out the door. "You fucking liked it." He playfully tossed the cum-hardened hair out of Noah's face, brushing away his tears with mocking tenderness. That was all it took to make the boy break down. Full sobs tore through him, seismic and profound. He was overcome all at once, buckling in half, barely able to move forward. The guard just shook his head; he'd get used to it soon enough.

It wasn't the pain though, or the humiliation. It wasn't the violation. It was the permanence. Noah Blanche would never feel the slick insides of a woman. He'd never get to rest his hands on the back of a girl's head while she bobbed in his lap, or know the musky smell of estrogen. Of woman. He wondered, as he shuffled behind the guard, if he could ever be a real man. He wasn't one now; sobbing and covered in cum. So defeated in so short a time that Mick walked him all the way to his bunk without even bothering with the handcuffs.

"Wish we didn't have to part so soon," Mick grinned, locking the boy in. "Too bad for me, I honor my bets. You kids play nice." He motioned to the sleeping skinhead, who now occupied the bottom bunk.