Copyright 2001 Marlene Taylor
Warning: This story contains rough m/m sex. If you are offended by this, or under 18, turn back now.
Disclaimer: This original work of amateur fiction is based on the TV series "The Monkees" which (as far as I know) is owned by Rhino. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright extends only to the original material in this work.
The first time Mike saw Micky walk into the dusty prison yard, he almost came in his pants. Five new recruits had arrived that day, late, and now that they'd been processed they were turned loose into the open market.
Four men and a boy. Nineteen years old, as Mike later found out, and in the house on a drug rap that he probably didn't deserve - but then, who in this prison ever got what they deserved? Mike hadn't; and he knew that if the truth ever came out he'd be doing a lot more than the ten years he was in for. Five down, five to go, and with a boy like that under him the time would go a whole lot faster.
Nineteen years old and the sweetest thing anyone had seen in a long time. When the yard door clanged shut behind him, leaving him alone in the hot Texas sun, Micky shrank back against the cinderblock wall, his eyes searching frantically for some safe harbor. The other newbies had melted into the crowd, greeting friends and finding their places. Only Micky remained alone, tall and slender and curly-haired, like a cherub all grown up. One hundred pairs of eyes turned to gaze hungrily at him, and one hundred cocks jumped when he turned to edge by a table, revealing his tight little ass. Most everyone thought: oh Christ, I wish I had some of that. Only a few thought: I'm going to get some of that.
Micky continued to walk slowly around the edge of the yard, still trying to find a place to hide. He moved gracefully, like a dancer, and avoided eye contact with anyone: at least he had some brains. As he got closer Mike could see his face better - open, soft, a wide generous mouth, high cheekbones, and a slightly flattened nose and uptilted eyes that suggested some vague ethnic background. His brows were drawn together as he seemed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Mike thought he was lovely.
From his vantage point in the rickety bleachers - all of ten rows of seats - Mike could see three men making their way over to Micky, moving smoothly and purposefully. The welcoming committee. In a few minutes Micky would belong to either Manny or Stick or Asa, and that night they would all hear his screams when he was raped, maybe once, maybe a lot of times. In a few months they'd get bored and the new boy would be rented out, until he made an alliance with someone else or got sprung. It always happened the same way. New prisoners came through often enough, and the rest were satisfied with the leftovers.
It had been a while since Mike had gotten himself a new boy. He'd been there long enough to establish himself as someone who shouldn't be fucked with; he'd found he was much more intimidating if he stayed silent, so he left the talking to his right hand men, Davy, a tough little Brit, and Peter, a rich kid who hand his hands in the prison drug supply. They were good men, and they were content to let Mike be the leader - and the target. Everyone knew he was in for killing his wife's lover, in self-defense, of course, so he'd gotten ten years for manslaughter instead of a trip to the chair for first-degree murder. You gotta love America sometimes.
And so he picked his battles carefully here, aiming for second place, which at least kept you alive. Then sometimes it came to it, and Mike had lost track of the number of bones he'd had to break over the years to stay second. That was his specialty. He was six foot three but built lean, and his strength was in his back and his hands and in knowing just where to aim. When he'd first arrived he had to fight off one of the same goons - Rayboy - who was now stalking that boy to show that he wasn't going to be anyone's bitch; they'd taken the man away howling and clutching at his arm, which hung at an odd angle, and Mike didn't have much trouble after that.
Getting Davy and Peter on his side meant cutting them in on the action, which was only fair. A few years ago there had been a whole shipment of new inmates, among them several young tasty bites, just the way Mike liked them, and he had gotten himself one and then the three of them had shared until their boy was suddenly paroled. There had been a long dry stretch with no new pussy, just the same old worn-out asses.
Until today. Micky was quite close now and Mike could see the fear in his face when he realized he was being hunted. Micky knew: knew what he was worth, knew that he was a virgin ass in a country of horny men, and knew that he was about to be claimed. And then he did something that astonished Mike, and in some small way, won his heart, or what there was of it. Most newbies, faced with this situation, would cry or run or slump down in defeat, but this boy straightened up, threw his shoulders back, and managed to force a little smile while he waited calmly for the winner to take him.
It was the smile that did it. Mike, who hadn't moved or said a word until this point, nudged Peter with the toe of his prison-issue workboot: "Go." Instantly Peter was on his feet, getting to Micky just ahead of the others, then standing casually in front of him with his arms crossed. One hunter shrugged his shoulders and ambled back to his corner of the yard; the remaining two engaged in some non-verbal communication, staring hard at each other until one gave up. Now it was just Rayboy and Peter. Micky, meanwhile, wiped his hands nervously on his jeans, sneaking an occasional look in Mike's direction.
"Sorry. First come, first served," Peter said amiably.
His opponent raised his arm to swing, but Mike cleared his throat noisily and began to rise from his place on the bleachers. The wood creaked, the sound amplified in the sudden silence that accompanied this unusual event. Mike stood tall and put his hands on his hips.
The arm was lowered. The contender withdrew. Mike sat down again, stretching out his long legs, and prepared to take possession of his new bitch.
Peter pushed Micky ahead of him to the bleachers and indicated a spot by Davy. He pointed at Mike and said "That's Mike Bones," as if he were pointing out someone very rich and famous to someone very poor and stupid.
"Smoke?" Davy asked, holding out a cig.
Micky swallowed and shook his head. "I d-d-don't smoke," he got out.
Mike was instantly furious: his little slice of heaven was flawed. How could such a perfect mouth mangle a simple word? He frowned fiercely. Maybe he should throw this one back. Then he looked again at the opening of Micky's blue cotton shirt and saw his graceful throat end in a little tuft of curly hair, and decided to give him another chance.
"Somethin' wrong with you, boy?" Mike barked. Startled at being spoken to, Micky met his gaze but then quickly lowered his eyes, twisting his hands in his lap and bouncing his leg. He couldn't seem to sit still.
"It's j-j-j-just when I get n-n-nervous, that's all. Thank you," he added, uncertainly.
Everyone broke up laughing.
Later that day Mike closed his eyes and let the hot water hit him full in the face. Here comes the shower scene, he thought. During dinner Peter had gotten Micky's basic information out of him with a minimum of stuttering. His name ("My friends call me Micky," he said). His bust (he had been unlucky enough to be asleep in the back of the van when the cops pulled them over, and his former friends had instantly laid all of the blame on him. And all their hash had been in his backpack, too, so he was fucked from the start. Now he was in for a year of hard time, to set an example for the misguided youth of America). Why his hair was so long ("I play in a band. Well, I used to, I guess. I can sing and play drums and guitar." Mike looked up sharply at that and Micky dropped his fork with a crash).
He turned off the water and once again appraised his new whore, finding him delectable in every way; he'd chosen well. Long arms, long legs, skinny in the tantalizing way that boys are before they fill out, and yet soft around the belly, like a woman. Hung average, nicely shaped, cut. And that beautiful little ass, white, round, just begging to be slapped and then pried open by a big cock.
Mike's own sizable prick was halfway to full staff just watching his boy. Peter and Davy stood protectively on either side of Micky, making no effort to hide their own arousal at being this close to new tender flesh. Mike had to hand it to him: Micky was once again showing grace under pressure by toweling off as casually as he could, surrounded by all these hard-ons aimed directly at him and the rest of the inmates waiting to see what Mike would do with him.
Nodding his seconds aside, Mike approached slowly, throwing his towel on the wet floor. He pointed down. Micky fell to his knees and stared at a puddle of water. Once again, he *knew*.
"You ever suck cock before?"
Micky kept his eyes on the floor.
"Yes," he answered softly. Mike was surprised but didn't let it show; it would make Micky that much easier to break.
"Do it now." Mike stepped forward until his cock, fully erect, was directly in front of Micky's face. Then those lips opened up and he touched his tongue to the slit, already leaking precum, and Mike was hypnotized by the pink wetness of his mouth which now took him in, warm, pliable, the mouth of his bitch; Micky was nervous, and inexperienced, but he tried, licking where he couldn't suck, moving slowly, then faster, and Mike just let himself go with it, knowing that a boy like this could learn a lot in a year.
His lieutenants watched with casual interest, having seen this particular scene played out many times before, secure in the knowledge that their turns were next.
Mike could feel himself getting close. He grabbed Micky's head by the hair and set his own pace, moving faster and deeper now into that sweet mouth, and just then the unexpected happened: Micky raised his eyes to his new master, looked up at him through long brown lashes, equal parts seduction and panic.
When any other bitch was on his knees like that, he would never dare to look up at Mike, much less look him in the eye, because he knew that Mike would beat him bloody. But this boy, oh, this boy, with his soft mouth stretched around the head of Mike's stiff cock, his big brown eyes full of fear and hope, desperate for some sign of approval. It was enough to send him over the edge: Mike twisted his fingers more tightly into Micky's curly hair as he came, ramming his cock deep, forcing Micky to swallow.
Mike released him and Micky fell forward, gasping for air. The sight of him on his hands and knees was almost enough to make Mike fuck him then and there, but he decided that there would be a better time and place for that. Now it was just business.
"Don't get up yet, bitch. You ain't done yet." Mike nodded at Davy and he took his place in front of the boy. "You got a ways to go but I reckon you can learn. Startin' now."
He watched Micky suck off Davy and Peter in turn, and by the time Micky was done there were tears rolling down his cheeks. Mike was hot all over again, thinking how sweet and beautiful the boy looked with his mouth full of dick and his eyes shut tight. Definitely the right choice. And now everyone knew it.
A little business in the evening, cartons of cigarettes exchanged, and everything was squared away: Micky was now with Mike, and Peter and Davy were temporarily paired up. Good all around. Mike liked having things work out the way he planned them. It felt like control.
Micky stood in the middle of the cell and looked around at the narrow bunk beds, the little desk below a square window to the outside, and the three grey walls that made up his new home. There was a bible and a couple of paperbacks on the table and that was it. No pictures. No nothing. From his seat on the lower bed Mike watched as Micky walked around the room, trailing his fingers over the walls, the desk, the outline of the window: he seemed to need to touch everything to make it real. When he got to the bible he flipped it open and peered at the writing inside the front cover.
Mike jumped up and slammed the book closed. "Don't touch my stuff, boy," he said, his voice low and menacing. Micky backed away from him, holding his hands up helplessly.
"I'm s-s-sorry, I d-d-didn't know - "
"And quit that damn stutterin'. You sound like a goddamn moron. If you ain't able to talk right, you don't talk at all, you hear me?" Micky nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor.
Mike grabbed him by the arms and pulled him close. God, he smelled good, and up close he was even more fresh and unspoiled. Mike wondered briefly if he even had to shave every day. He could feel the tension in Micky's biceps and he thought: You damn well better be afraid of me.
"Get this straight. You belong to me now, me and my boys. You do what I say and that year will go by right quick. You got one job now, bitch, and that is to be a piece of ass for me, whenever I want it." Mike's voice softened as he thought of much time he could spend in that butt. "I aim to fuck you every day," he growled.
At that Micky's head jerked up and he stared into Mike's cold flat eyes, trying to pull away, his baby face full of horror; Mike backhanded him casually, business-like. They always fought; they always lost.
"Do what I say and you'll live. Understand?"
Micky nodded, biting his lower lip. It wasn't fair for him to look so appetizing at this particular moment, when he needed to pay attention and learn his place. Mike hit him again, hard, hard enough to knock him to the floor.
"Answer me, boy," Mike said. Micky slowly sat up, holding his head.
"I understand," he whispered.
Later, after lights out, Mike lay in his top bunk, thinking about how good the day had turned out. He'd gambled and been rewarded with his very own cherry bitch for a whole year. So soft and pretty. So young. And he belonged to Mike.
His thoughts were interrupted by a muffled sob from the lower bunk. Not an uncommon sound in these halls, but Mike didn't want anything to ruin his good mood.
"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep," he ordered. The sounds stopped.
Mike smiled to himself as he drifted off, thinking what a lucky man he was.