The clang of the cell door still echoed in Alex’s ears long after lights-out. He lay on the thin mattress, staring at the concrete ceiling, every muscle locked tight. At twenty-four he was younger and cleaner than most of the men on the block, and that made him prey. He knew it the moment Marcus had looked at him across the chow hall—slow, measuring, the kind of stare that said ownership was already decided.
Marcus was thirty-eight, built like the weight machines he dominated every morning, tattoos crawling up thick forearms. He didn’t waste time with words. When the guard’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Marcus swung his legs off the top bunk and dropped to the floor without a sound.
“On your knees.”
Alex’s throat closed. “I’m not—”
Marcus grabbed him by the hair and yanked him off the bunk. The pain was sharp and immediate, forcing Alex to his knees on the cold floor. Marcus stood over him, the front of his orange jumpsuit already tented.
“You talk when I tell you to talk,” Marcus said, voice low and even. “You breathe when I let you breathe. Understand?”
Alex nodded once, eyes burning. Marcus unzipped and pulled himself out—thick, heavy, already hard. He didn’t ask. He simply pressed the blunt head against Alex’s closed lips until they parted.
“Open.”
The first thrust was shallow, testing. The second pushed deeper, stretching Alex’s mouth wide. Marcus kept one hand fisted in his hair, the other braced against the upper bunk, hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm that left no doubt who was in control. Spit ran down Alex’s chin. He gagged when Marcus pushed too far, but Marcus didn’t pull back; he held him there, letting the muscles flutter and struggle until Alex’s eyes watered and his hands clutched at Marcus’s thighs.
“Swallow around it,” Marcus ordered. “Learn it.”
Alex obeyed. The taste was musky, salt and skin. Marcus used his mouth like it belonged to him, thrusting until Alex’s jaw ached and his own cock had hardened against his will inside the thin prison-issue pants. Shame burned hotter than the stretch in his throat.
When Marcus finally pulled out, strings of saliva connected them. He hauled Alex up, spun him around, and shoved him face-first against the bars. Cold metal pressed into Alex’s cheek. Marcus yanked the jumpsuit down to mid-thigh, exposing him. Rough fingers dragged spit down the cleft of Alex’s ass and pushed inside without warning—one, then two, scissoring open.
“Fight it and it’ll hurt worse,” Marcus murmured against his ear. “Relax and maybe you’ll come.”
Alex didn’t relax. He clenched, and Marcus punished him for it with a third finger, twisting deep. The burn was sharp, but something else flickered beneath it—heat, unwanted and insistent. Marcus found the spot inside him and rubbed it deliberately until Alex’s knees buckled.
Marcus lined up and pushed in.
The stretch was brutal. Alex bit his own forearm to keep from crying out. Marcus didn’t stop until he was seated fully, hips flush against Alex’s ass, one thick arm banded across Alex’s chest to hold him still. He stayed there, letting Alex feel every inch, letting the reality sink in: this was happening, and it would happen again.
Then he started to move.
Each thrust drove Alex harder against the bars. Marcus fucked like he owned the right—deep, grinding strokes that knocked the air from Alex’s lungs. One hand wrapped around Alex’s cock and stroked in time, rough and efficient. The dual assault—pain and reluctant pleasure—made Alex’s vision blur. He came first, spilling over Marcus’s fist with a broken sound he barely recognized as his own. Marcus followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing hot inside him.
They stayed locked together while Marcus caught his breath. When he finally pulled out, Alex felt the slow trickle down his thigh. Marcus wiped his fingers on Alex’s jumpsuit, then zipped himself up.
“Tomorrow night you’ll ask for it,” he said quietly. “And you’ll mean it.”
He climbed back onto the top bunk without another word. Alex slid down the bars until he sat on the floor, legs shaking, the taste of Marcus still on his tongue and the ache of being used still throbbing between his legs.
Outside the cell, the block remained silent. Inside, Alex’s breathing slowly steadied. He told himself it was survival. He told himself he wouldn’t beg.
But when the lights came on the next morning, Marcus caught his eye across the cell and smirked, and Alex felt his body answer before his mind could lie again.
