The Lost Generation Chapter 11
I'm back sooner this time, finding my groove somewhat -- thanks, in no small part, to those who have been in touch to offer compliments, theories and notes on the story. I appreciate you greatly!
If that's not you yet, then why not!? Get on it! I welcome all feedback, dialogue and criticism at kinked88@protonmail.com! Go!
Thank you, again, for reading (and being patient) and please consider showing Nifty your appreciation of its existence with a donation, however small. Head along to http://donate.nifty.org/ and do what you can to help keep this amazing resource alive. Thanks.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
11
When Sam woke the next morning, he was alone in the bed and facing the other way. His first thought was simple gratitude that he had eventually -- somehow -- managed to fall asleep. He did not have chance to wonder for long where his abuser had gone, as his head appeared and disappeared metronomically above the far edge of the bed, accompanied by jangling. Sam's hole felt sore and it was only as he moved to gently investigate it that he realised his wrists were still by his neck. He felt stupid in more ways than one. He blinked a few times and stretched his lower half. At least the bed was comfortable and warm. He might just stay in it forever.
"Morning," said the boy. Sam jumped slightly, suddenly aware he was making eye contact with him, but said nothing.
"Alright?" the boy asked, still rising and falling. Sam scowled, imperceptible in his spandex hood.
"Why did you do that? Last night?" he said, quietly.
"Cos I wanted to," the boy replied, breathless now.
`It fucking hurt!"
"Yeah... Well... Wait til it's my dick," was all the boy said simply, rising to his feet and pulling the duvet back. "Come on: up."
Reeling, fearful, Sam swung his legs out the bed and sat up. He rattled his wrists and glared at the boy in black.
"I need the toilet," he said shortly.
"Yeah fine," Jacob replied, coming round and unclipping the cuffs from the collar. Sam stood, stretching and bending his arms to try and pump some life into them and shake the cramp, before repositioning himself on the toilet mere feet away.
"You need to let me know when you're done," Jacob told him. Sam glared again, what the fuck!?
"Why!?" he demanded.
"Just fucking tell me," Jacob snapped. Sam glowered. This was a fucking joke. Bad enough he had to be here at all -- and away from his brother, his family, his mates -- but to have some jumped-up arsehole thinking he was gonna run his life as well...!? Not a fucking chance! He watched as his piss flooded the plastic device over his cock and sprayed all over the bowl, and sighed. Fuck's sake, another mop-job. He ignored it for the moment and focused on emptying his bowels instead.
"Ok I'm done," he said sullenly to Jacob, some minutes later. Jacob, who had been doing press-ups round the other side of the bed, stopped and came to once again crouch in front of him, take some toilet paper and quite thoroughly clean the cock cage of urine.
"Right, stand up, turn round and bend a bit," he instructed.
"What... What the fuck? What for!?" Sam exclaimed, shocked.
"So I can wipe your arse," came the calm response.
Sam exploded. "What the FUCK!? NO!" he roared. "I CAN WIPE MY OWN FUCKING ARSE, YOU PRICK!" he continued, growing more and more agitated. "I don't know who the FUCK you think you are..." he started, jabbing the other boy in the shoulder, spittle flecking his face, before a seismic interruption cut him off -- a loud, dull thump, fabric on fabric, and a rushing ache in his cheek and jaw. Jacob had, with some force, slapped him across the face. As his hand clutched instinctively at his cheek, Sam's rage only heightened, incensed that this total stranger -- this utter weirdo and fucking PERVERT -- had dared to fucking hit him... Barely a split second had passed between being slapped and the bad decision he made next. He unconsciously drew himself to his tallest stance, aimed both palms at the boy's chest and shoved with as much strength as he could muster, sending him stumbling backwards and falling onto the bed. Before Sam could advance and further his attack in some way, Jacob was up in a flash, his eyes ablaze with anger and indignation as he flew towards him. Sam didn't see the fist, nor even feel the contact; he was aware only -- suddenly and with a dizzying panic -- of being unable to catch his breath. He bent double, clutching his stomach, his vision almost blurring. A strong arm encircled his neck from above and pulled, wrestling his crumpling, wheezing body across the room in a headlock. As he twisted to try and see his way, another blow landed in his ribs and he audibly cried out. The arm released him; a hand jammed into his armpit and pushed him forwards; he reached out and held the bars in front of him to steady himself. Behind, the clang of a door; a rattle, a scrape, a click. Standing straighter, he gasped deep lungfuls of air and turned, still holding the side. The boy stood on the other side of the bars, panting.
"You're gonna fucking regret that," he said, coughing into his fist. "Really fucking regret it."
Sam still didn't feel he could speak; didn't know what he'd say anyway.
"You can fucking stay in there now," Jacob spat. "You and your shitty arse. I'm going for breakfast." And with that, he turned and left, pausing only to reach above the door and take down the clock on his way out.
Sam slumped against the cage and puffed his cheeks. He half-heartedly reached through the bars and yanked at the chunky, silver padlock. Unsurprisingly, it didn't yield. He tried to sit down, but there was nowhere near enough space; he couldn't even squat on his haunches.
`LET ME THE FUCK OUT!" he bellowed into the room, shaking the door as hard as he could. The metallic rattling bouncing between the bare, brick walls was the only response he received. "AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!"
He dropped the couple of inches the cage allowed him, his knees pushed painfully against the bars, and rested his head backwards, looking at the ceiling. In his peripheral vision he could see the unkempt bed, cruelly mocking him with warmth and comfort. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to picture life from just two days ago. Mum's face... Luke's voice... Lying in the back garden last summer... Driving with his friends... Man, his friends... Some of them would be going through this, too... They might even be here, he reasoned_..._ Random conversations they'd all had peppered his thoughts -- none of them had come anywhere close to guessing anything like this. Did he have a best friend? he wondered... Alfie, probably... Wonder if Alfie is wearing one of these Lycra suits... Wonder what he looks like... Just his eyes, and mouth, and...
There was a clatter at the door. Sam had no idea how much time had passed -- it could have been two hours for all he knew -- but it felt like a long time so he was pleased, sort of, that Jacob had come back. The door opened and Sam steeled himself for more confrontation, but it was not Jacob who entered the room. The figure froze in the doorway, looking at Sam. It was a boy, wearing the same as Sam but all blue. The Lycra suit; the cuffs; the collar; even the thing round his dick -- all navy blue. Which made the red tag on the collar all the more obvious. Having considered Sam in the cage for a moment, the boy reached behind him and wheeled a trolley inside before softly closing the door. Sam stared openly.
"Who are you!?" he demanded of the stranger.
"Ben," came the curt reply as he fussed about the trolley, picking bottles and cloths.
"I meant what are you doing here..."
"Cleaner," he said, his warm Scottish accent more noticeable now.
"Can you let me out?" Sam implored him.
"No keys," was all he replied.
Sam watched as the boy worked methodically around the room, dusting, cleaning the toilet and sink, making the bed, emptying the small bin. Reaching the upright cage with Sam in it, he confidently wiped each and every bar up and down, totally ignoring Sam, and moved on.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, feeling very unsettled and weird.
A long pause. "It's my job."
"Yeah, but... You're just... Doing it. Why? Why aren't you kicking off and telling them where to go!?" Sam continued, growing more confused.
"Training," the boy shrugged. Sam was frustrated.
"Can you talk like you're not a fucking robot!?" he snapped unkindly.
The boy -- Ben -- stopped and looked at him, blinking slowly.
"Has he fucked you yet?" he said eventually, returning to dusting the equipment shelf.
This rocked Sam: the directness, the imagery, the explicitness, the unspoken tacit understanding of that being a thing at all... He looked away, at his enclosed feet.
"Hm, you're lucky," Ben said, wiping the door handle. "Lots of them think a first-night fuck is a good start to breaking you."
"Well I'm not gay," Sam said weakly. The boy chuckled.
"Haven't you got the memo yet? None of us were when we came."
"But you are now?"
"Yes, I am proud to be a gay man and serve the needs of other men," Ben said, as though from a script, "and all I'd say is that there's probably a reason you've been assigned as a bottom. Anyway, I'm done. See you later." And with that, he grabbed the trolley and left, closing the door behind him.
Alone again with only the passing hubbub from the corridor, or random electrical whirring, for company, Sam reeled, an odd sort of panic twisting his insides. Was there something he'd given away? In his questionnaire, maybe? Time drained invisibly away and his turmoil continued to bubble; his thoughts flew this way and that, swelling into defiance, crashing into despair, melting into fear. Aching soon set in physically too. Young and fit as he was, his body was unaccustomed to standing in one position for so long. He shook his legs, reached his arms through the roof of the cage and stretched, trying to ease his shoulders. He turned, his back to the door, and leant his forehead against the back of the cage, pressing the soft flesh of his buttocks against the bars rather than his knees. This widened the opening at the rear of his suit, though, and the coolness of both the air and the metal against his skin meant he soon returned to facing forwards and standing more upright.
Just as he finished counting the second row of bricks of the wall opposite him, the door opened again and he was almost pleased to see it was Jacob -- or at least, he assumed it was, and not another stranger, in black Lycra. He went straight to the toilet roll and brought it from the holder.
"Ready?" he said, simply.
"For what?" Sam scowled, fairly certain of the answer.
"To have your shitty arse wiped," Jacob said bluntly.
As resistant as he remained to the idea, Sam didn't want to spend a moment longer in this fucking cage; he wanted to bend, stretch, lie down...
"Fine," he snarled quietly.
"Good lad. Turn round then and push your arse to me. Hold the roof of the cage."
Sam did so and burned with shame as he felt Jacob's hand abruptly invade the cleft of his buttocks for the second time in less than twelve hours. He flinched as the rough paper was dragged across his hole, still tender from the night before. Three swipes and his humiliation was complete. Jacob went to flush it then unlocked the cage, reaching for Sam's collar to pull him from it.
"No more fucking around," he warned in a firm voice, drawing Sam almost face-to-face. "Understood?"
Sam hardened his face and glared; a temptation rose to punch the boy speaking down to him but he decided against it. His hold on the collar was tight, and tugging at an awkward angle.
"Fine," he said again, begrudgingly.
"Good. Let's get going then."
"For breakfast?" Sam asked, unable to disguise the hope in his voice. Jacob just laughed in his face.
"No chance, you've missed that now. No, we're going to Class... Stand there a second..."
Sam stood, somewhat dumbstruck, as Jacob once again fastened his wrists behind his back, a short chain between his ankles and the leash around his junk, then tottered obligingly behind him out of their room and into the warren of corridors.