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No. 69467
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Written during the Oscars, and goddamn I feel dirty. I've never written something like this before, hope it's alright.
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Shoot the Dog
Mother Schtein had told him time and again not to run his mouth, to quit it with the smart-ass answers before someone really shut him up for good. /Really Herville/, she'd chide, /not everyone is as lenient as /. A snap—his arm was broken and his lesson, she assured herself, was learned.
Except his words got sharper, turned to acid in his mouth and spilled out like oil, poisoning everything around him and driving life away.
Any pain he felt at the absence of people was drowned by alcohol, and his hate darkened and festered inside, burrowed into his personality so deeply that not even the shock of prison could chase it away. Fortunately for Schtein, his acid mouth had not enticed any serious retribution from his fellow inmates. His mother would have called it the Devil's luck.
What happened when his luck finally ran out...well, Mother Schtein would have called it /justice/.
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Water rushes down his face and pools on the grimy tiles below. Steamy air fogs the room as the sound of the shower lulls him into a trance. Schtein is content, if only for the moment. /It's been too long/, he thinks, /way too long/. He tilts his head back, enjoying the warmth and the quiet.
The quiet.
Fear grips him in an instant. Too quiet—too quiet for a locker room, quiet as the grave for a prison shower. He turns, expecting the worse, finding it in the form of MacManus and his men advancing toward him. He wishes immediately that he were struck down dead. The /splash/ of their feet echoes in the room and he can only scream for the guards once, twice before they have crossed it entirely.
As he is surrounded by men with biceps thicker than his neck he is painfully aware of his nudity. Drew, that thug, that Aryan lunatic, grabs him by the head and Schtein is going to die, /oh God, like an anima/l, and then--salvation. All Drew wants is an apology. Despite his mind being hazy with fear, he manages to stammer out:
"I'll do whatever you want...I...I'm s-sorry..."
Laughter, chiding, they start to leave, and as his mind, that sick vicious animal, becomes aware again, it rears back and becomes enraged. /Laughter./ /At him/. In this prison he has no weapon but his words. Furious in his shock, he hisses “/Slimy trailer park afterbirth/.” It’s his gut instinct, and as with many of his instincts, it results in a monumentally terrible decision.
In the graveyard silence of the shower room it echoes, his muttered insult, his death rattle, and as MacManus turns back, Schtein knows he has made this room his tomb. MacManus looks confused, at first, as if this sort of back-talk is an entirely unique experience to him—Schtein is a different sort of animal, one too stupid to know when he’s been beat. Confusion quickly morphs into resolve, and as MacManus and his cronies make their way back to where Schtein lay crumpled on the floor, his face bears the look of a man ready to put down a rabid dog.
Schtein sees it, and he is scared. And in his fear, he is slow; Krow, MacManus’ small, hunched supporter, gets to him before he can so much as roll over, and Schtein quickly finds himself once again held down by MacManus’ men. The back of his head is wet against the pipe he is forced against, and he is aware—too aware—of the sensation of hands gripping his wrist, his chest, his /face/—every nerve on fire. He wants, more than anything at this moment, to crawl out of his skin and burn himself clean, but the press of thumbs on his wrist remind him, firmly and insistently, that he is very much set to stay.
MacManus looms over him, a mocking smile playing about his face. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh, Doc? I almost feel sorry for you.” He sighs. “You’re a bit like my dad’s old dog—you just don’t know when to stop barking.” MacManus smirks. “Well, we fixed him real good. I’m sure we can do the same for you. Whaddya say, boys?”
As if on cue, Schtein is forced onto his knees. The realization hits him with the force of a truck, and with renewed fear he struggles frantically, stammers out “No, please, n-not this—”
MacManus kicks him once in the chest. Hard. He feels the crack of something, some essential part of him, as the pain spirals from his ribs. He dry-heaves.
“Calm down, Doc, no need to get yourself all worked up. It’ll all be over soon, and we can go back to being /friends/.” Laughter echoes in the room and Schtein feels sick. This has all become too real.
With a few sparse words, the other men are sent out to watch the door, leaving MacManus and only one of his underlings with an iron grip on Schtein’s wrists. He grasps Schtein by the chin, tilting his head back. Calm. “If you try anything with those teeth of yours, I’ll have them knocked out.” He pulls out his cock, already hardening, and forces Schtein’s head forward with a yank of his hair.
Kicked into survival mode, Schtein does the only thing he can—he braces his hands against MacManus’ muscled thighs and takes his cock full in his mouth.
It’s heavy on his tongue, the hand gripping his hair much too hard. He screws his eyes shut, focuses on the feel of it in his mouth and not on the man above him, grunting in approval. He manages to zone out enough that he fails to notice movement behind him.
Narrow hands grip him suddenly about the waist and jerk him back, forcing him to place his hands on the ground to steady himself. Schtein is startled, unwrapping his mouth from MacManus’ cock and letting out a “Hey!” of surprise.
“Finish what you started, boy.” MacManus smashes his head into his crotch, and Schtein scrambles to comply. Wills himself not to flinch when he feels someone lean in against the curve of his ass, folding themselves over his naked, ugly form. He feels a finger slip in, quick and wet, and he spasms slightly.
“Don’t think I’m doing this to be nice. If I don’t stretch you out you’ll chop my dick off, you’re so fucking tight.” Above him, MacManus laughs.
Ah, so it was Krow, then. He slips in another finger. Schtein continues sucking MacManus’ cock, willing the guards to come before the men. Without warning, Krow removes his fingers, and Schtein feels it for a moment, blunt and heavy against his ass, before Krow pushes in to the hilt.
Hating himself but unable to stop, Schtein moans.
“Fucking whore,” Krow mutters, and MacManus snickers. Flushed with shame, he rocks between the men, pushed by one, pulled by the other, and he has never felt so used, so dirty, so /sick/ in all his life. His ass burns and his mouth is too thick with saliva, but then Krow /hits something/ in him and all thoughts of discomfort are forgotten. He bucks back, Krow pushes forward, and with his nose buried in the curls of MacManus’ pubic hair, he comes.
A heavy grunt, and he finds MacManus’ grip has tightened. The cock in his mouth convulses and he is choking down the man’s seed, forced to swallow and willing himself not to vomit it back up. MacManus pulls back suddenly, content, and staggers back. He gives Krow an impatient look.
“Hurry the fuck up, the guards aren’t gonna be gone forever.”
“Fuck you,” Krow hisses, eyes shut and hands firmly looped around Schtein’s middle. With a sickening gasp he shudders, and Schtein is filled with him, wet and sour. Krow lays over him, boneless, before MacManus hauls him to his feet.
“We’re leaving, Krow, pull yourself together.” He shoves the man towards the door, Krow struggling not to trip on his pants. He turns back to Schtein. “I hope you’ve learned something from all this, Doc.” He smirks at Schtein’s nude skin, bruising already and splattered with cum. “And clean yourself up. You look disgusting.” He leaves, his footsteps echoing in the empty room.
Schtein tries, he really does, but he just can’t help himself—he curls up on the soiled tile floor and cries.
MacManus hears them, the choking, heaving sobs, and as he walks back to his cell, he cannot help but smile.
END
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