tagGay MalePrisoner's Prisoner

Prisoner's Prisoner


He had chosen well. His gaze went over all of the possibilities and they fell on me. And he knew and I knew in that gaze who the real prisoner was. I thought even then that he must have had help, that someone must have researched and guided his choice. Surely he couldn't tell that about me just by looking over all the possibilities—that I was the weakest in the chain and what my weakness was and the extent of that weakness—and that he could exploit it as well as he did. I knew I was lost when I first saw him enter the room. I knew then what the outcome would be. The joke really was on him; he didn't need to do what he did to get what he wanted.

We were released for lunch, but as the others left the room, a clerk came over to me and told me I was needed briefly in a room down at the end of the corridor.

When I entered the room, there he was, sitting in a straight chair, still handcuffed. The man who let me in the room was burly brute of a man. Well over six foot and solid with muscle but also well padded with too much rich food, beer, and other forms of self-indulgence. He looked mean and unyielding, just as he should to be doing what he was doing.

But my eyes went immediately to the boy. No, not a boy. I had read the record; he was a man now, and that made his plight all the more hazardous. If he lost now, he wouldn't be free again for years. But he looked so vulnerable—or he certainly looked just as someone would who I would take as being vulnerable. Very young looking. Lithe, blond with curls hanging down in his eyes, and almost a girlish, shy sense about him. Hooded eyes that probably could tear easily and were, to me, at least, very sensual. I certainly took the look he gave me as a sensual one, and I wondered if that was natural and if it would be his undoing if he were to lose now. Certainly the curls would go, but how much of the manner he was showing me could be changed or at least hidden from the predators? My heart went out to him, as, involuntarily did other parts of my body. He was just the sort I had always fancied.

I wonder in hindsight if perhaps he wasn't that sort at all, but only was that sort now because he needed to be.

The eerie thing, really, is that not a word was spoken by him. He conducted the whole scene with his eyes and his gestures and his body.

The other man, the dark, foreboding one, motioned for me to sit in one of the straight chairs and then, when the young man lifted his wrists, the older man brought out a key and unlocked the cuffs.

Then the young man came over and knelt before me and looked up with those wounded deer eyes of his. I looked on, mesmerized, almost in shock, as he lifted his T-shirt off his torso. I could see bruises. He had been mistreated already. (I wondered later if he might have done that to himself. If so, it worked a charm on me.)

I heard more than saw the sound of the zipper of my trousers. My eyes were lost in the young man's imploring gaze. I did break away from his control long enough to look at the other man, but he was just standing there, looking at us both, impassive of body. But he had a small smile on his mouth, and his eyes were gleaming.

I sat there as if shackled as the young man found my cock and brought it out into the open and began working it with his hands, his eyes imprisoning mine still. Even when his mouth went to my engorging tool, his eyes were lifted up to mine, imploring me, trying to convey the depth of his need.

He knew me fully even before I possessed him fully. He knew I was lost in the look of him, in the need in him, in my own need for him and for all of the other hims like him.

I just sat there, straight in the chair, my arms hanging limply at my sides, as he stood then and took off his trousers and briefs and then settled down in my lap, facing me. I moaned and threw my head back in wonder and desire as his ass passage slowly descended on my throbbing cock. This is what I lived for; this was the most basic need in my life. And I had been stripped entirely by him. He was the one physically stripped and me still nearly fully clothed, but I was the more naked of the two. He had gone straight to my secret desires, had found my deepest vulnerability.

I looked to the larger man for some sense of the why of all of this, but he was just standing there, with that gleam in his eyes and the half grin on his face—and his beefy hand rubbing the front of his trousers, running his fingers along what appeared to be a monster tool.

The young man had unbuttoned my shirt, and his lips and fingers were playing with my nipples as he slowly raised and lowered his small hips on my engorged cock. I began to groan and moan my passion and the rising of my essences. And my moans were mixed with sobs. I didn't want to enjoy this, to need this, to live for this. But I did. I couldn't help myself—and the young man knew I couldn't help myself.

I was lost now. I was taking over and thrusting my pelvis up into him as he rode backward and forward on my lap. He was crying out for me now, talking dirty, biting at my nipples, bringing his mouth to mine, trying to pull every ounce of power out of me, doing everything he could to bring me to a quick finish.

And he succeeded. With a sob and the ejaculation of both my strained voice and of my seed, I capitulated to him, became his prisoner of passion.

We sat there, both panting, trying to regain our breath, me still inside him, but retreating, withering from the knowledge and shame of what I had done—what I had let him do to me; what he had lowered himself to do for his own need, which really wasn't my need at all. I knew I meant nothing to him really except for the two words I could give him.

It was then that the larger man, the beefy man of the mean aspect, went into action. He was at us now, pulling us apart. The young man was roughly lifted off me and thrown down on his back on the table that was in the center of the room. The young man tried to rise, and the larger man backhanded him across the face. With one hand the man gripped the youth around the neck, holding him down on the table top with a strong strangle hold. With the other hand, he undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and pulled out a baseball bat of a hard cock.

I sat there in my chair dumbfounded. The young man's eyes were on mine, and I could see the pain and suffering in his eyes.

Those eyes woke me to his plight, and I started to struggle up, to come to his aid, although I had no illusions that the monster of a man couldn't take care of both the lithe blond and me together.

Seeing me start to move, though, the larger man turned to me, took his hand off his cock, and raised it toward me.

"Stay where you are. You'll do that if you know what's good for you."

"But you can't. . . ." I started to say.

"He wants this," the guard declared. "This was both the deal and what he said he wanted. I get to fuck him for letting you in here and giving you both privacy. And he wants me to fuck him hard and rough so you'll know what waits him if you don't save him. So, you just sit there and watch."

The look in the young man's eyes told me that his tormentor was speaking the truth. And I just sat there, not wanting to watch, but mesmerized, sharing the young man's pain and suffering, as the large man brutally entered him with his cock in one powerful thrust and pounded him hard and long and vigorously, all the time holding him to the table with a beefy hand on his neck. And all the time the young man's eyes imprisoned mine, conveying his suffering, making me share in his suffering. And share I did. I felt every thrust of that cock and of every cock that might be in the young man's future. And I cried for him.

The next three days need not even have happened. It was a foregone conclusion. The young man sat there, impassive, the burly guard within striking distance, as I stood in the final moments and, as jury foreman of the young man's trial for manslaughter in the first degree, read out in ringing tones those two words he wanted to hear: Not guilty.

The young man hadn't promised me a thing; indeed he'd never said a single word to me. But, of course, I had had hopes. Such was the depth of my need and my obsession that I would still harbor hopes against all reason, against all evidence that he had just used my weakness against me. But after we left the courtroom that day, I never saw him again. He had what he wanted already.

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