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 clock was ticking.
Micky became Mike's obsession. It gave him something to do. For a man like him there was nothing in prison but fighting and fucking, and listening to other inmates talk about places he would never go, things he would never do. He was monumentally bored, but then he'd been bored most of his life. Even marrying that no-good whore of a woman had just been an attempt to escape boredom.
But now he had something new and shiny and lovely that no one else had, and he could hold the idea of Micky in his mind for hours, turning it over and over like his grandma's worry-stone, studying all its facets and flaws. He watched everything Micky did, silently, and after a few days Micky seemed to get used to Mike's constant gaze and stopped stuttering, except when he had to talk directly to Mike.
Which wasn't often. Micky never needed to be told anything twice. Mike's fists taught him very quickly what he was allowed to do, where he could go, and who he could talk to - keeping such a beautiful boy on a short leash was the smart thing to do. But Mike made sure Micky saw how the other bitches were treated, so he'd know just how good he had it.
Davy headed up a group of prisoners that were allowed to work on a local farm, working on machinery and tending the horses. A few more cartons of smokes ensured that Micky went with them, safe under Davy's watchful eye. Another good thing, Mike thought, since it was too distracting to have Micky around all day: thinking about him all the time was bad enough, but to have his body so close, his long-fingered hands jumping around in his lap, his brown curls brushing delicately against his ears - it was just too much. There was business to attend to.
Also, it was the perfect opportunity for Micky to work on his cocksucking skills. Mike had charged Davy with that too, not really caring how it got done. The first day at the farm Micky came back sunburned and looking very surprised, and Davy had just smirked in his annoying way and said "The best way to learn is by example", and when Mike imagined Davy sucking off Micky he got very hot and made Micky do it twice that night. And, true to his word, Davy had taught Micky a lot in a day.
But Mike hadn't fucked him yet. He wanted to, god knows he wanted to, but something told Mike that if he had to rape him the first time, it would be like that every time. And he didn't want that. He kept having visions of Micky on his back naked, arms and legs open wide, begging to be fucked hard, please Mike, I want your big cock up my ass all night long. Like that was ever going to happen. Well, a man could dream.
And after three weeks Micky still cried himself to sleep at night. It was always just as Mike was starting to fall asleep and it bugged the hell out of him. Every night he had to tell Micky to shut up; a few times he'd even gotten out of bed and rapped him around, but it never made a difference. This night he was fed up. Mike jumped off the top bunk as soon as he heard the first catch in Micky's breathing.
"What is your fuckin' problem, boy?" he demanded, sitting on Micky's bed and grabbing his t-shirt.
"I'm sorry," Micky said, shutting his eyes on his tears. Mike waited but he didn't move or speak.
"I am real tired of listenin' to you bawl every night. You don't quit it, I'm a have to let you go. Understand me?" Micky nodded. But as Mike started to get up, Micky caught his hand.
"Don't go. Please," he whispered.
"Christ, now I gotta babysit you at night too. I never seen one like you, boy," he muttered. But he was secretly pleased that Micky wanted him close. They lay on their sides on the narrow bed, Mike's body curled protectively around Micky's. After a few moments of silence Micky spoke again.
"I want to go home." Mike could feel his body shake with a sob as he said it. He laughed scornfully.
"Home to your momma and papa? You ain't a little boy no more. This here bed is the only home you got." Then, more kindly: "Just don't think on it. Now please shut the hell up and go to sleep."
When the challenge came he was ready for it. Another hot day in the yard, like all the rest that made up the long summer, but today with a buzz of tension just below the surface. Mike occupied his usual place in the bleachers, watching the rest of the action, while Micky was wedged between Davy and Peter, who was speaking softly to Mike about their latest drug run. Business. Mike didn't particularly like the fact that he was helping supply the prison population with speed and weed, but it was profitable, and Peter's connections on the outside made it too hard to resist. The guards were perfectly willing to let Mike and company do their deals as long as they were cut in on a little of the action.
Peter stopped in the middle of whatever he was saying and locked his gaze on the figure approaching them. Short, stocky, tattooed, and covered with scars: Manny, who was the boss of the Mexican contingent. He bought from Mike, along with everyone else, but they'd never gotten along, polar opposites. Mike respected Manny's position but didn't like how he treated his gang or his bitches. It was none of his affair, anyway.
Mike rose as Manny approached, to recognize his status, but he did it slowly, to show that he wasn't real impressed. Behind him, Davy whispered, "He's alone. You're covered."
"Que pasa, Bones," Manny greeted him. He smiled broadly and spread his arms wide: no weapons, or none that could be seen, anyway.
"What can I do for you, man?" Mike said, equally as pleasant, as if they were old friends meeting at the general store.
"For me? No, not for me, amigo. I don't ask for nothing for me. I come to tell you how it is on the streets." He looked very serious. What the fuck is this all about?, Mike thought.
"There are starving men out there. Men who have gone without for weeks, waiting for a scrap to be thrown to them. And you, my friend, are the rich man who doesn't share." His gaze shifted to just behind Mike. Of course. Fucking bastard.
"And what's worse is that you don't even want what you have. What a waste. You been here five years, don't you know that nothing goes to waste in this place?" He took a step closer to Mike and looked him right in the eyes.
"Cut the bullshit, Mon-well," Mike said with as much of a lazy drawl as he could muster. "What I got, I got. I take care of mine. The rest of you can all go to hell."
"I can send you there now. But then you wouldn't get to see your wife again. She's gonna take you back after she finishes fucking the rest of Texas, 'ey?" This got a huge laugh from the circle that had now formed around them. It was clear there was going to be a fight, probably the best fight in months.
Mike knew Manny was baiting him, hoping he'd get mad enough to make a mistake. He shook his head and moved a few yards away from the bleachers, both to give him more room to maneuver and to draw attention away from Micky. He felt alert but relaxed, his senses finely tuned: that strange sense of anticipation he always went through before getting in a fight, before getting laid, before getting arrested.
"I ain't interested."
"What he needs is some training. You loan him to me and I'll make it worth your while. I won't hurt him. When I give him back he'll be wide open and begging for it." Out of the corner of his eye Mike could see Davy and Peter staring down some of the crowd who were beginning to leer and whoop. This was getting ugly.
"No." Mike shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and bent his knees a little. He had the height, and the reach, but Manny had the muscles. He'd have to do this fast.
"You make a bad decision. I guess you are just a dumb white trash hillbilly." Manny hitched up his jeans. "Time's up, puta," he snarled, and swung wildly at Mike with his big scarred right hand. Mike side-stepped him easily enough, kicking at his ankle as he went past.
"You dumb fuckers never learn, do ya?" Mike growled. Manny only smiled at him.
Mike lunged at him, grabbing at Manny's hand while aiming a forearm to the throat - but suddenly intense pain shot through his own left hand and he had to spin away, never taking his eyes off his opponent. The shank in Manny's fist flashed red in the sun; he could feel the blood running down his fingers.
"Goddamn no-good lying sack of shit," Mike said through clenched teeth. The fistfight had turned deadly and he was already one down. He barely had time to get his balance back when Manny charged him, the knife slicing through the air as he stepped back again, just in time. He could hear individual drops of blood hitting the ground as they eyed each other, the crowd now quiet as they waited for the next move.
Manny feinted to the left but Mike didn't fall for it. You had to watch the weapon, not the arm attached to it, and when he saw the knife reappear he sprang, hoping to even the odds. Mike got in one desperate punch to the eye that probably saved him it knocked Manny's aim off enough so that the blade missed his chest and landed in the top of his thigh. He was going to get cut to ribbons like this: time to take it to the mat. All or nothing. He gathered his strength and jumped on Manny's chest.
They went down in a cloud of dust, rolling over and over as Manny fought to get his wrist out of Mike's iron grip. They came to a skidding stop at the edge of the ring of cheering inmates; Mike landed on top and saw his chance. He braced his feet and let go of the hand holding the bloody knife and as it came towards him everything slowed down and he could hear only the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. Shooting forward like a racer out of the blocks he landed hard on Manny's arm, dug his left elbow into the flesh, grabbed the hand and twisted it as hard and as long as he could. The bones crunched and snapped; the knife fell from Manny's now-useless fingers as he howled in pain.
"Motherfucker," Mike said with contempt. He got up and limped back over to the bleachers, away from the guards who were finally moving into the yard to clean up the mess. The blood was still pouring out of his leg, and his hand didn't look too good either. He raised his head to check on Micky, who was white with shock; then he looked back at the man screaming on the ground, and passed out.
Mike flexed his left hand experimentally: the stitches hurt, but he could still use it. He might have to, now. Manny wasn't the only one with the guts to take him on. His leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he knew it would hurt like a son of a bitch when the painkillers wore off. He lay down on Micky's bed and waited for his return.
Peter came by first to make sure he was all right. Everyone in the house knew what had happened and why; most of them thought Mike was a little crazy for fighting like that over a bitch but if it made them more afraid of him, that was no bad thing. Things had pretty much gone back to normal. Manny would be in the infirmary for a few more days while they figured out how to set his mangled wrist.
"You want to see Mick?" Peter asked, his eyes calm and amused. "He's getting really nervous."
"More than usual? I don't believe that's possible," Mike sighed.
"I don't think he's the street-fighting type. It freaked him out pretty bad." He leaned a little closer. "You took a big chance. Was it worth it?"
"It will be tonight," Mike replied, rubbing his good hand along the bulge in the front of his faded prison jeans. Peter gave him a wry smile.
"Leave some for the rest of us, boss," he said quietly, and got up to find Micky.
Mike was gratified to see the relief pour over Micky's worried babyface.
"Takes more than that to keep me down," Mike said casually, trying not to think about how much he hurt.
"Jesus, Mike, he had a goddamn knife! Why didn't you call the guards?" Micky's voice rose even higher as he paced around the cell.
"Didn't need to. They were probably too busy makin' bets to pay us any mind, anyways. All that matters is I won." He got up and moved to where Micky was standing, intending to reap his reward in a properly grateful kiss from the boy he'd saved once more. But Micky was too wrapped up in the drama of the day to notice.
"But now what? Is he going to send somebody else after you, or me? What if he just decides to grab me when you're not around? What if somebody else gets the same idea?" Micky was almost hysterical, looking around frantically as if assassins might pop out of the walls. Mike reached out to touch him but he yanked his arm back.
"Calm down, Micky. No one's gonna take you away."
That only seemed to make him worse. "If it wasn't for you none of this would have happened! I'll never make it out of here, never, never - "
"Shut up and stop cryin'." Mike slapped him to emphasize his words. "Don't give me no more of that 'I wanna go home' shit." He pushed Micky down on the lower bunk.
"It's time you started showin' some gratitude to me, boy. You know what woulda happened to you if I didn't take you? You'd a been fucked unconscious, passed around like a collection plate, and bought and sold a hundred times by now! That what you want, bitch?" he shouted.
"N-n-n-no," Micky stuttered, wrapping his arms around his body.
"Manny was right. Long past time for you to get broken in."
Micky's eyes went wide. "Oh god, no, please, no -" and Mike had to slap him again to shut him up, and he slid off the bed to the floor. Micky tried to crawl away but Mike hauled him back by the waistband of his jeans and pinned him to the cold concrete floor with a knee in his chest. Mike spoke calmly.
One word, stark and menacing. He let it hang in the air for a while. The only sound was Micky's ragged breathing. Suddenly the lights-out call rang through the block and everything went to black and white.
Mike removed his knee and sat back on his heels. This was so much fun.
"You got no choice." He waited, and just like he hoped, Micky didn't curl up and die; instead, he took a deep breath and folded his hands over his chest, as if he were relaxing in bed. This boy was something else.
"I know," Micky said, and now his voice was steady. Mike thought he might die of happiness. He leaned down and spoke in Micky's ear.
"It can be good. I can make it good," he whispered. "Now get undressed."
A weak shaft of moonlight came through the little window. Micky lay trembling, his pale skin glowing white in the darkness.
"Look at me, bitch," Mike hissed, grabbing his chin. All he wanted to do was to kiss those lips so hard they would be crushed like berries. How had he resisted this long? He took a deep breath.
"I'm gonna fuck you. I can't wait no more. But no one is ever gonna fuck you but me."
Then Micky did a curious thing: he reached out and let his hand touch Mike's face, his chest, the bandage on his leg. "Why?" he asked.
"I reckon I'm just a selfish bastard." He smiled as he said it, a hard, cold smile.
Mike gave himself a moment to savor the anticipation. The first time with his sweet young thing: he would never have this chance again and he didn't want to fuck it up. Micky was looking at him fearfully, his hands crossed over his crotch, as if that would change the fact that he was naked. Mike pulled his hands away and his legs apart.
"I know what you like, boy. Davy told me you're a regular old whore when it comes to gettin' your dick sucked. I want to see for myself." Micky's cock was soft when he took it into his mouth; but Mike was an old hand at this, and it didn't stay soft for long. A juicy hard-on that begged to be licked and sucked and lingered over, and it got even harder when Mike slid one wet finger up Micky's virginal ass: he jerked and gasped like a fish on a line as Mike twisted his finger around and made contact with the sweet spot deep inside. Two fingers and that tight hole started to stretch, just enough, and when Mike pushed them in all the way Micky moaned softly, half in pain and half in pleasure, and Mike thought it was the best sound he'd ever heard. He wanted no one to hear it but himself.
But now it was time for business. Mike drew his hand back, leaving Micky flushed and panting. He scooped some Vaseline out of a jar; it felt like a glove on his pulsing cock. He pushed Micky's legs up, so his knees were by his shoulders, but it wasn't enough. What he wanted was ass, and he wanted it where he could grab it.
"Turn over," he said, and there it was, that gorgeous little butt he'd been dreaming about since day one. He ran his finger into the dark cleft, so boyishly smooth, then pressed some more lube against the puckered skin. He'd never been first in, not back home, not in prison; he felt strong and all-powerful, knowing that he was about to transform this boy from virgin into lover, all by the simple act of fucking.
He centered his cock on the target and leaned forward, letting his weight drive him in, slowly at the entrance but then fast and smooth as he sank down, in, in, all the way in. It was heaven; warm flesh all around him, so tight and wet, and under him Micky crying out, twisting and bucking, announcing to the world that Mike had finally claimed his bitch.
Slow and easy. He looked down to see himself moving in and out of Micky's sweet ass and felt more turned on than he'd ever been before. He loved the way his cock looked when it was working, big and stiff, and he loved the way his balls got ever so slightly squeezed between their bodies with every stroke. Micky's hands clutched the mattress as he sobbed "no" into his pillow over and over. But Mike had heard that song before; sure enough, when he reached around he found that Micky was still hard, and that made him even more excited, and he wanted Micky to be hard always so that he could look at it, touch it, hold it close and make Micky come whether he wanted to or not.
Micky was still struggling to pull away, so Mike wrapped his arms around his waist, trapping Micky's body, whip-thin and tough as a willow; then he pushed hard, and deep, till there was nowhere left to go. He was close, real close, when suddenly Micky stiffened under him and jerked his hips back once, pressing against him, and that was enough to get Mike off fast and furious. He hadn't come like that since forever and it lit him up like a Christmas tree. From somewhere down the cell block he thought he heard faint applause.
"You did real good, babe. Took it like a man."
Micky turned his head away and spoke to the wall. "It hurt," he said sullenly.
"First time always does. But at least it don't leave no scars," Mike said, fingering the bandage on his thigh. It was spotted with fresh blood; he hoped he hadn't ripped out the stitches.
"Why did you do that to Manuel? Why not just let him have me? He could've killed you," Micky said.
"Let him have you? And you're worried about *me* gettin' killed?" He remembered some of the other boys who had passed through Manny's hands: when they were sprung they weren't pretty anymore. He didn't care much about dying himself, but would Davy and Peter be able to keep Micky safe? He pulled him close even though Micky shrank away from his touch.
"I got responsibilities. If it wasn't him it woulda been some other fucker."
Silence for a while, and then:
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Micky asked, his voice raw with misery.
"You ask why a lot, boy. It don't pay to be so curious in this place." Micky didn't move. Anger rose in Mike's throat, but now it was different: he was angry because he was hurt, and that was a feeling long-forgotten, so old and so unexpected that he didn't know what to do about it. And that made him even madder.
"Because right now, you're all I got," Mike said curtly, then vaulted up to his own cold, lonely bed. The morphine was wearing off and he couldn't get comfortable; he tossed and turned, finally giving up to stare at the dirty, flaking ceiling. What a fool he'd been, to think that a boy like that would want anything to do with him. Micky wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when he got out he'd go back to California and his friends and his family and he would never make the same mistake again. And Mike would still be in the same fucking cell, his life a highway to nowhere. Stupid to think it would ever be different. Stupid to want what you could never have.
Then, in the grey darkness, Micky's head popped up at the edge of his bunk.
"So," he asked brightly, "When do I get to fuck you?"