Ganymede & the Eagle. by davis trell.
A beautiful eighteen year old boy, the prettiest in all the world; Ganymede. Still a virgin, still not tested yet. Not tried, his ass exited turds the size of fat cocks; one could fit right in, make someone happy, churning in those bowels, but no-one had done him yet. His time was yet to come.
Naked save for a shower cap. Looks lonely in the showers. He'd better not stoop for the soap. But he does, drops the soap regularly; bends over shows, the prettiest ass they got here in Honcourt, but the guards are watching, no one is brave.
Killed his mother so they say. But here, everyone exaggerates their crimes. Maybe it was only his kid sister. He doesn't look strong enough, to do in a full grown woman. Sure is pretty, but. Curls for hair, cupid bow mouth, nipples designed by Satan, waist waspish, belly a little full. hips slender, a cock small, and a butt that looked as if it ached to be slapped.
Zeus, a man built out of carved rock. Bull head, close-cropped hair, eyes thin, under knitted brow, thick-necked with a blue eagle tattooed over the twin slabs of meat of his chest, the talons encircling his nipples as if gouging droplets of blood. To the rest of us inmates, we'd have to work out, from here to eternity to have musculature like that.
He's done hard time. He'd turned to the color of jail walls, the sun was a stranger, he even got agrophobia when let out of solitary.
Usually he'd kill a guard or a trustee, depends if either got over-friendly, but he'd be put back to wallow in the hole again.
He'd been nineteen once, twenty years ago, he'd strangled a man, he'd asked for it, but I won't explain. It's between him and his Maker. He'd got used to jail life, jail food; he was no gourmand. French jails give you the same crap, they serve the world over, doesn't taste bad; one step up from eating cardboard, buttered with shit.
Showertime is over, the guard with his rifle, waves us butt-naked bathers to leave. Save for Ganymede, who picks up the soap, regretfully for the last time that day.
"Move!" and we do, a procrastinating procession of men, who are still spirited, but our chins hang low.
"Not you, white-cheeks! Stand as you are! New bivouac; tonight you're changing cells."
He's used to his nudity, prefers it to being clothed, that's when he looks his best, holding the home-spun uniform in a bundle under his arm.
"You're sending me to the Prison hospital?" he asks, overeagerly.
The guard spits, answers "No."
"Tonight you're in for a treat. You're to bed with the Eagle, in cell No.2."
"Who's the Eagle?"
"A con prepared to give his tobacco allowance for a year, for one night with you."
He'd bribed the screws; to screw the young dude.
"What's he like?"
"He likes to chase young women on the Champs d'Elysees, whaddaya think he's like. He's been a prisoner since the day he was born."
We moved to our own designated cells, four men in each, one shithole, one photograph of Mama, which we shared.
We saw Ganymede go by, listened to the wolf-whistles, catcalls. The way he shimmied his ass, in a way, would've turned even the Pope on.
The guard showed him to his cell for the night.
"They're going to guillotine Zeus tomorrow, so you be nice."
The lights dimmed, and we sang Napoleonic songs, from the time when France had seen far better days. We wallowed in ordure, each with his bunkmates, some holding the other's cocks, the rest just raised their asses, depended on the proclivities of each individual jailbird.
If there'd ever been a sun it'd gone down: we'd heard rumors of a moon but no-one had actually seen it. Once someone had caught a bird, described to us as a rat with wings, but no one in their right mind, believed such creatures exist. The air hang with urine, feces and dead semen. Someone lit a cigarette, was immediately garroted, the burning ember was shared, finally stubbed out on someone's naked flesh.
"I'm Ganymede, come from Argenteuil, been here two years, no-one's fucked me yet."
A jail cell introduction, next would come the resume, what had been done to be incarcerated, whom he'd killed.
Zeus was silent, brooding in the shadows, a silhouette hiding in darkness; all to be seen were two half closed eyes. Panther bright.
"Mine's the top bunk?" shyly Ganymede asked.
The youth, pale, would've shone in moonlight, but in the gray twilight he just looked beguiling, and his voice was trembling.
"You'll be bottom," a voice, gnarly, an accent from the South, Dijon, peasant in accent, with a fairground boxer's intonation. His feet manacled, held by a thick chain, that allowed him the run of the cell but no further.
"Put your clothes away, you won't be needin' them."
The boy seemed delighted at the prospect, if a little timid, dropped the rags they called a uniform in a heap on the floor.
"Lights out!" cried a screw, black darkness, save for a dim bulb's yellow glow, for the guard's inspection, who'd later would count bodies, even the two-backed beasts.
"I have to pee," said the whisper-white youth, "have to pee in the slop bucket, but my penis is curved up, it hurts to force it down,will you hold the bucket high for me, so I don't splash the walls."
The drrzzzinnng as the sharp stream of urine hit metal, echoed in the dark silence,the only human sound allowed after curfew.
"Hold onto it, feel how pretty my cock is, slender, see how easily it fits in your hand."
The boy filled the bucket half full, while Zeus sat uncomfortably, trying to hold onto two objects, he did not want to drop either.
When the boy was finished his night-time ablution, Zeus put the slop bucket onto the floor, but held onto that young cock.
"Still dribbling, why don't you drain off the rest with your tongue."
Sand-paper rough, the delicate flesh settled into the strong crease of the folded tongue.
"Oooh, I like that. Take more of it in, take all of it in, balls too, if they'll fit."
The bull neck, bent forward, engulfed the youth's genitals, oaken arms round the back, his knotty fingers digging into the soft buttocks, feeding greedily, slurping noisily, sucking hard.
"Everything alright in there?" said a screw, rattling his truncheon against the iron bars.
"Oh, simply wonderful if he keeps this up, he'll make me come, or simply swoon."
The guard grunted, left the two alone.
"Turn around, boy. I want to see if its true that you only shit white turds from your pink-rose pucker."
Ganymede turned, pirouetting like a dancer, bent over, so Zeus could investigate. He knew it was not true, he excreted chocolate like everyone else. How this prison mythologizing got started, he didn't know or care, he just enjoyed being the topic of speculation.
Zeus with hoary hands gripped the boys hips, forced his face in between the two halfdomed butt cheeks, stuck his tongue out, like a cobra, entered and tasted the remnants of fecal honey that remained.In a mass of shadows that swallowed all color, the myth would persist, still no-one would know the truth. That Ganymede shat,that he passed brown stool, but was hungry for dick, and hoped that the rock column that sprang between Zeus thighs would soon enter his unbridg'd entrails and skewer him like an Arabian sweetmeat, would almost fuck him half to death. Bent nearly double, stretching back his hand, he felt, back and under, to clutch the massive pillar of cruel man-flesh, to position it correctly. His finger nails traced the route of every pronounced vein and tributary, felt the fat corded muscle that ran from ball-base up the underside, till he touched the evil scar of circumcision, felt the meaty ridge that surrounded bell of the corona, glans penis, achingly red, to the crater of the piss-slit that felt big enough to fit in a boy's thumb. He tried to concentrate on his tactile discovery, but the bull-headed man, with the broken nose had got his tongue up so far in the boy's ass,that his lips were spatulate, stuck flat to the curves of Ganymede's youthful butt.
The tongue lashed, like a whip, struggling in frenzy, licking a prostate, as big as a kidney, and bruised inside, like a boxer's punching ball. Tears streamed from the face of the nubile youth's face; tears of pain, pleasure, penetration.
Us other inmates stopped what we were doing, as we heard that piercing shriek, so's we knew that the old blue-eagle had got his talon in, more screams as we heard him feed it further up into the beauteous youth. The howl got shriller till the timbre of the yowling deepened, dropped in pitch, turned to a wolf baying at the moon, then a pig grunting in mud, satisfying, somewhat tremulous, but obviously a good job was being done. There was no envy; each of us at one time or another had wanted to fuck Ganymede, something had always gone wrong, but no-one envied as we remembered that this was Zeus' last night on earth. And now the boy had been broken in, he was no longer taboo, we'd all get our chance now; so we got back to what we'd been doing with each other.
"Quiet!" yelled the head screw.
The boy bent forward, gripping the bars, of the jail cell, his face full of pain, tears became irrelevant, all that mattered, was that the big guy got off, came soon, soon the pain would persist, but they'd be together as equals. Boy had become man, rites of passage from one generation to the next.
Zeus didn't care, this last deliver of cum, on this earth, was meant to be an antidulevaun conquest. Apres le deluge, c'est moi!
All was sticky, all was silent, save for a final grunt from Zeus, and a groan, turning into a satisfying gasp from Ganymede. We'd stopped to listen, wish we were the one'd that had done him, but from his sigh, knew that Zeus was the one.
Next day they topped him. Guards brought the head back.
"I kiss thy lips, Jokaan," said Salome.
"J'ai baise ta bouche, Iokanaan," says Ganymede.
Now he's meat, everyone's done him, me not excluded, but tomorrow I'm to be hanged.