Cell Mates

The cold of the bare concrete seeped into Nim's knees, past the cheap, fleecy-lined trackpants he habitually wore to bed. He barely registered the discomfort though, being too intent on the hot, hard cock filling his mouth.
      Mitch was breathing hard and his thighs were trembling - wouldn't take much to set him off. Nim slid a finger past the tight scrotum and gently scratched along the delicate skin between there and Mitch's anus.
       The Englishman's fingers dug tightly into Nim's shoulders as he came, silently, copiously. Nim managed to catch all the semen but didn't swallow. He pulled back, letting the bigger man's penis slide from his mouth, and waited for him to catch his breath. Nim could easily make out his cell-mate's half-smirk in the reflected illumination from the prison's floodlights and he smiled lop-sidedly in return. Mitch gently brushed the back of his knuckles against Nim's lightly freckled, ivory cheek - an affectionate gesture he'd never make in front of any of the other inmates - then cupped his hand below the slender man's pointed chin. Nim grinned and quietly spat the collected fluid into the waiting palm. Mitch's grin widened and he jerked his head towards the sparse, metal-framed bed on the other side of the cell. His heart pounding in anticipation, the younger male shuffled on his knees the short distance between the bunks, and still kneeling, pulled his trackpants down past his thighs. He leant forwards over the thin mattress, fine, straight dark-red hair flopping over his face as he positioned himself. He reached for one of his pillows as he felt Mitch settle behind him and tucked it squarely between his forearms; he'd need it, Mitch never made a sound during sex, something Nim had never been able to get the hang of. Shivering with desire, his penis already full and firm, the young prisoner wriggled his thighs as far apart as he could and held himself still as the fruit of his labour was used to lubricate his arse.
      He shuddered, biting back a moan as Mitch shoved into him, then lowered his face to the pillow and gave himself up to the sensations…

Mitch was still buried in his body, the brawnier frame draped limply over his back. The man's warm weight was comforting in a weird way.
       "All right?" he whispered into Nim's ear, sending new shivers of delight up the young man's spine. Nim could only nod, he wasn't quite able to speak yet. He'd thought he was going to pass out with pleasure that time - he really hoped none of the inmates in the adjacent cells had heard anything, it could make things… awkward for him.
       With a murmured, "G'night." Mitch pulled out and briefly squeezed his shoulder before making his way to his own bed. Nim fought off a wave of loneliness as behind him he heard the sounds of his cell-mate settling into his creaky bunk. Right now there was nothing he wanted more than to climb in there with him and curl up next to Mitch's broad strength… But that was ridiculous, he wasn’t queer, neither was Mitch, this arrangement was purely business. Nim hauled himself to his feet, cleaned himself up then went to his own bed.

Nim was eighteen months into a two year sentence for drugs offences. He'd been working as a courier for some Dutch chemists but got cocky after having made half a dozen successful runs to and from the UK. His crime wasn't serious enough to warrant the use of the controversial, and expensive, behavioural modifiers so he was slung into one of many prisons England had to offer to serve out his sentence the old-fashioned way. It hadn't been a fun year and a half but it would've been a helluva lot worse if he hadn't hooked up with Mitch.
      Mitch Hale was also in on drugs charges, more serious than Nim's offences but still not enough for the mods to be an option. Not that it would've come to that even if he had been found guilty of something worse. Mitch had money behind him, lots of money; he could've bought his way out of a more severe punishment. Nim had been puzzled by this - if Mitch had the funds, why didn't he buy himself out of a jail sentence entirely? Mitch's blue eyes had gone flinty cold and he said he was first, conserving those funds for when he was released, and second, he was staying inside and quiet so the bastards who'd arranged to have him put there wouldn't think he was a threat anymore. Nim knew better than to ask for any more information at that point. Knowledge meant power, it could also mean death if the wrong people thought you had the wrong information.

Despite a carefree, almost reckless life, Nim had managed to stay out of trouble all his twenty-three years - prison life had come of something as a shock. That he was young and good-looking didn't help, a fact that was brought home to him within half an hour of being shown to his cell. A friend of Mitch's had apparently found him lying semi-conscious and bleeding on the floor where his brute of a cell-mate had left him while going to fetch some mates to help finish 'breaking in' the new boy. Nim had never been fucked, and before he'd passed out from pain and terror he'd seriously thought it was going to kill him. He woke up in the prison infirmary some time later half-wishing he was dead but the luck of his Irish forebears was with him; he didn't die and Mitch took him under his protection.
      When he was well enough to leave the hospital he found Mitch had 'organised' - ie: bribed a guard - to have him put in his cell. At that stage he'd known sod-all about the steel eyed, quietly sardonic Englishman and he'd felt no gratitude, only a deep suspicion about his motives. Sure enough the dark-haired man had been forthright about what he wanted from him but in return had offered him safety. Nim didn’t hesitate, he wasn't gay, had never been interested in men but the thought of being left to fend for himself was terrifying. His new cell-mate wasn't a bad bloke though and eventually the disgust and humiliation Nim felt letting the man use his mouth and arse diminished. That Mitch had arranged for Nim's rapist to have a messy accident went a long way to helping him come to terms with his situation.
      But now Mitch was being released and Nim still had six months to serve.

In line with standard procedure, the guards were coming early for Mitch, before breakfast. Still tucked up under his blankets, Nim watched from his bed as the older man dressed then cleared his few belongings out of the meagre storage space, shoving the lot into a duffel bag. Neither of them said a word.
      The cell was noisily unlocked then one of the two guards standing outside pushed the door wide open. He asked Mitch for his prison number, checking that and the man standing in front of him against the image on his clip-board.
      "Ready to go, Hale?" He asked jovially; this was Tully, one of the friendlier of the prison staff who was not above taking a bribe but always kept to his side of the bargain.
      "Don't worry," the other guard sneered. "I'm sure someone will look after your... boyfriend for you." This was Peterson, a not so friendly guard; Mitch froze him with a look but said nothing.
      "Right, let's go." Tully stepped to one side and Mitch strolled out of the cell. At the doorway he paused and looked back over his shoulder at Nim.
      "I'll organise some funds for you," he murmured, "so you don't have to rely on the prison slop." He smirked lop-sidedly and his blue eyes gleamed with good humour. "Can't have you dying of malnutrition before you're released, eh?"
      "Cheers, mate." Nim's grin hid his heavy heart.
      "'Bye." Mitch tossed him a casual wave and then he was gone, the cell door shutting firmly behind him.
      Nim sighed, closing his eyes against undignified tears. Dammit but he was going to miss Mitch. He was going to miss his strength and his dry, biting sense of humour, going to miss his body, the way he'd use his hand to pump Nim's cock while he was fucking him… The young Irishman scowled at his erection and silently berated himself for such thoughts. Eighteen months being Mitch's fuck-toy hadn't turned him queer, it's not like they were lovers, he was just going to miss his… friend. No, that wasn't the right word either; he and Mitch had a cordial relationship but they weren't friends. What was he then? A boss? Mentor? It didn't matter anyway, Mitch was gone, out of his life – it wasn't likely they'd stay in touch.

It was after breakfast, while he was working in the laundry that the first of Nim's expected trouble tried to sneak up behind him.
      "Keep your fucking hands to yourself!" he snarled at the two men, both of who were now doubled up on the floor fighting for breath. Mitch was a proponent of Jeet Kun Do, a short, sharp vicious form of karate some Hong Kong movie star had developed donkey's years ago; he'd shown Nim some of the moves. The young man reached down and dragged one of his would-be attackers up by the front of his dull-blue shirt. "Anyone else tries anything like this and I'll break their bloody necks, understand?" He flung the groaning man back down then went back to work, not noticing Hammer, one of Mitch's circle of associates, watching quietly from the corridor.

Nim didn't expect to have the cell to himself for long - the British courts would see to that - and later that day his new cell-mate was unceremoniously pushed into the room. Andy was a young man, a boy really, slender, almost gangly, with short brown hair and hardly any stubble to mar his smooth, Mediterranean complexion. His olive green eyes were wide with fear and he looked and moved like easy prey. Nim watched him gingerly sit down on the edge of Mitch's bunk and realised he'd have to do something or the boy would be dead within a week. In the quiet, after light's out, he told Andy what was likely to happen if he didn't toughen up, and on an impulse offered the boy the same deal Mitch had offered him.
      He'd been as gentle as he could but Andy had whimpered in distress when he was penetrated and then sobbed like a girl the whole time. Nim remembered his own experiences those first few months with Mitch. When had he gone from hating being fucked to looking forward to it?
      Nim got no satisfaction at all from fucking Andy. The boy was too traumatised to respond to his attempts to arouse him, to make the experience bearable, and he'd grimly set about getting it over with as quickly as possible. Nim jetted into the boy's body with a gasp, then pulled out feeling somehow hollow, soiled. It was only afterwards while he lay awake listening to Andy cry himself to sleep that he understood why he hadn't enjoyed it. He thought back to the numerous women he'd slept with and how he'd always been more attracted to the strong ones, the ones that took charge. And then there was Mitch… Nim sighed to himself; it looked like he was hard-wired to be a submissive, no wonder he hadn't enjoyed being in charge.
      The next day he handed over a subdued Andy to Will, a bear of a man who he knew would treat the boy gently. Of course, he'd still have to share his cell with Andy at night until he could find a way to get the boy in with Will, but in the meantime the kid would be safe from the predators.

"Ready to go, O'Donnell?" Tully, still jovial, asked Nim on the morning of his release. Nim nodded and followed the guards down to the administration block. He was processed and discharged quickly and before 9 a.m. found himself standing outside the prison.
      He stood shivering in the cold, pale morning. Now what? He had a little money he'd earned from his laundry work, it was enough to get him home though he wasn't sure he was looking forward to what his Mam had to say to her criminal son. (Killing and being killed in the name of a free Ireland was one thing - Nim had lost quite a few relatives and ancestors to the cause - but being jailed for couriering drugs? No, that wasn't something you bragged about to your neighbours.) He still had some friends in London, might as well start there. Nim hunched his shoulders against the cold and resolutely headed down to the nearby train station.
      As he walked a car pulled up alongside him. He ignored it and kept walking.
      "Hey, Nim!" the sound of Mitch's voice jerked him out of his reverie.
      "Mitch?" Nim turned towards the car.
      "Want a lift?" his old cell-mate smirked at him from the back seat of what Nim saw now was an older model of a prestige car.
      "Sure." The young Irishman shrugged and slid into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. The two men gazed at each other.
      "You look like you're doing okay for yourself." Nim observed. Mitch was dressed well, expensively but tastefully and his rather wild dark-brown hair had been neatly trimmed. Nim couldn't help noticing how… attractive he looked lounging back into the leather upholstery.
      "I'm doing all right." Mitch grinned. "And you survived I see." He nodded to his driver and the car started off.
      "Yeah, I managed."
      "Hammer said as much." The Englishman had an air of smugness about him.
      "What?"
      "I asked Hammer to keep an eye on you." Mitch grinned again. Nim didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed.
      "Didn't you think I could survive without you?"
      "Just making sure." Mitch's grin became infuriating then suddenly he was serious. "There's a reason I came to meet you today."
      "Oh?"
      "I've got some old scores to settle. I'm starting up again and I want you in my organisation."
      The 'old scores' would be the people who'd put Mitch behind bars. Nim frowned – he'd heard a rumour it was the Canlys and he wasn't sure he wanted to be anywhere close when the shit hit the fan. That family had a bad reputation...
      "Why me? I'm hardly a big-time player."
      "I trust you." Mitch fixed him with a penetrating look from blue, blue eyes and Nim's heart flopped over in his chest.
      "Oh." God above, now was not the time to let his emotions influence his decision making.
      "What do you say?" Mitch pressed.
      "Sure." Nim swallowed, pretending to think while surreptitiously eyeing the bulge of Mitch's groin, disturbed to realise he hungered for the man. "I have a condition though."
      "Go on."
      Ask and ye shall receive, Nim's nanna always said. Nim swallowed again and face flaming, he looked Mitch square in the eyes.
      "I want you to fuck me sometimes."
      Mitch blinked, then stared, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead. Then he smirked.
      "So, eighteen months of you squealing that you're not a fag and it was all a lie?" he chuckled. "That works out quite well, actually, I'll be dealing with blokes that like a bit of male flesh - you'll do nicely."
      "Ah, no you don't!" Nim growled sharply, surprising Mitch. "I am not a commodity!"
      It was Mitch's turn to frown.
      "I'm not sure I understand. A man who wants sex with another man is gay -"
      "I'm no more queer than you are!" Nim's Irish brogue always thickened when he was under stress. "I just want yer to fuck me. You, not anybody else."
      Mitch's expression was odd, uncertain.
      "I'm not asking to be the love of yer life," Nim cajoled, "It's just sex, okay?" He sprawled back into the seat, relaxing his thighs open, and fixed Mitch with a challenging smirk. "You going to tell me you didn't like what I did for you?" Mitch blushed, something Nim had never seen him do. Sensing victory the Irishman angled his body towards him, opening his thighs even wider to give an unencumbered view of his stirring groin. "Yes or no, Mitch. Your choice."
      Mitch tore his gaze away from denim-clad temptation and sighed melodramatically.
      "Fine, if it makes you happy."
      "It's not just about my happiness though, is it?" Nim murmured, briefly palming his genitals, squeezing them gently in an attempt to halt his arousal. Mitch licked his lips and Nim wondered if the Englishman realised he'd done it.
      "Fancy a steak?" Mitch asked suddenly.
      "For breakfast?" Nim laughed.
      "Why not?" the older man shrugged. "Steak, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, real coffee…"
      "Why not indeed?" Nim grinned, it'd been years since he'd had anything close to steak. "And then we can go back to your place and… discuss my role in your organisation?" He wasn't sure about the wisdom of pushing Mitch so early but dammit he wanted the man. He'd think about the ramifications of that later.
      "If you like," Mitch flicked a glance at the driver then reached out to briefly trail a fingertip down the inside of Nim's thigh, smirking at the muffled groan it elicited. "I'm sure we'll need a couple of hours at least to reach a mutually satisfactory agreement…"

© 2003 October 1^st


Darkside

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© 2003 WordWrights