Let's hug it out, bitch. (cosmorific) wrote in temps_mort,
Let's hug it out, bitch.

Oz: Pragmatic Concerns (NC-17)

Title: Pragmatic Concerns
Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Schillinger/Beecher
Rating: Definitely NC-17.
Challenge: Name Game
Time: 90 minutes
Warnings: Season 1 spoilers, M/M sex, angst, bigotry, bad words and, last but definitely not least, coerced sex. If borderline NCS gives you the willies, give this one a pass.
Comments: I wrote this for mayatawi, because I am convinced she needs to watch Oz, in return for her getting me hooked on Due South. Wench. :D

Pragmatic Concerns

"But I just took a shower, sir."

"That's all right, prag. When I'm done with you, you're going to need another one."

Schillinger coats his cock with Vaseline, mainly for his own benefit, and works his way in without any further preliminaries, gritting his teeth from the effort. The younger man lying underneath him bites his arm to keep from screaming. He feels as if he's being shredded from the inside out. Which, in effect, he is.

His balding captor starts plunging in and out of him long before his body's had the chance to adjust. Taking his own pleasure and nothing more, showing little to no concern for the man he's screwing. When he climaxes, he pulls out and jacks off all over his cellmate's back and ass, grunting triumphantly. Marking the blond as his property. His designated fuckhole. His bitch. His prag. He chuckles, smacks him on the ass in mock affection, asks sarcastically if he had fun. Then he leaves, mercifully, presumably off to take another shower, wash the smell of the disbarred lawyer's even further degradation off his skin.

It could have been worse, the older man's roommate thinks to himself. At least I didn't enjoy it.

That was what it was always like, the first few times. All the sneering White Supremacist seemed to want from him, sexually speaking, was a handy receptacle in which to vent his baser instincts. Having to lick the older man's boots or tear up pictures of his family had been far more humiliating. At least this way he knew it wasn't his fault. He had no say in the matter, took no pleasure in it, put up with it only because he couldn't tell the guards without risking bodily harm that went far beyond prison rape. Nothing he could be held accountable for in front of God or his wife or the warden or the other inmates or even himself.

Until he started getting off on it.

Sex is sex. No way around it. Sometimes, no matter how much the mind is screaming out in revulsion, the body responds when it's stimulated. That wasn't sexuality; that was biology. Anatomy. Still not his fault. Not that this gave him any comfort.

The first time he came from getting fucked by that racist, rapist piece of shit, he hadn't been touching himself, hadn't even been rubbing up against the bed, except inasmuch as the motion of the fuck jammed him back and forth. But then, oh shit, it actually started to feel good, almost as good as consensual lovemaking with his lawfully wedded wife. Better, even. He was only saved from utter humiliation by the fact that he'd already been biting his arm to stifle his agony - he has almost constant bruises there now - so the irrefutable sounds of his pleasure were muffled. He felt the come jerk out of him, again and again, burning its way onto his skin and the sheets, and bit down almost hard enough to break the skin, self-flagellation for his self-betrayal. If his tormentor noticed, he didn't make mention of it - thank God for small favors - and seemed concerned solely with cleaning off the residue of his own ill-gotten orgasm. He may have taken the tears that fell silently from his prag's eyes as a sign of pain and humiliation. Hard to imagine he'd thought anything else, for that matter. Not much else one could expect from a man getting unwillingly fucked in the ass by his own cellmate and unable to do anything to stop it.

He did the laundry that night without needing to be asked. His master was extremely pleased. "You're learning well, prag. I might just have to reward you one of these days. Well. It'd be a reward for me, anyway." His usual nasty, lupine grin, his usual denigrating use of nicknames. His captive's usual meek deference.

He cursed his own body that night. Sobbing silently so he couldn't be heard, scratching at his own skin until this time he really did draw blood. Feeling filthier than ever, unable to get clean. Tainted to the bone.

The next time they had sex, he couldn't stifle his moans, and Mister Neo-Nazi Boss Man paused in mid-screw to notice that the noises coming from the man he was plowing in the ass weren't coming from a world of hurt.

"Well, hell, Bitcher. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were getting off on this."

He gave no reply. No sign he'd understood, or even heard, the other man's words. There was nothing he could say right then that wouldn't incriminate the fuck out of him. To coin a phrase.

"Looks like I'm going to have to give you your reward right now, then, pretty boy."

Pulling him backwards without even pulling out first. Onto his hands and knees, the dick in his ass shifting within him, friction from the change in position wringing still more sounds of not-exactly-hating-it from his traitorous throat.

"Touch yourself, prag."

He shakes with self-revulsion, unable to speak. Finally, he musters up a feeble "Sir?"

"What, am I speaking fucking Swahili, sweetheart? Jerk yourself off. Show me how much you love it."

He tries to obey, to move his hand. Can't do it. Right now, he'd rather be killed.

"I said touch yourself, cunt, or I'll rip your guts out and feed them to you."

This time, he can't help but comply. Wraps a hand around his aching hardon. Thrusts once, involuntarily, into the undeniably pleasant friction.

He had no choice. Nothing he could do about it. Not his fault.

Just following orders.

The fucking starts again, and he starts jerking himself off in earnest, not even bothering to hold the noises back now. He can practically feel the bastard smirking behind his back, grinning at him in triumph. Ramming home into him, ball-deep, again and again, harder and faster now, each thrust intensifying the handjob this white-collar criminal can no longer help giving himself. He lets go of his mind, as much so he can still maintain some semblance of sanity as so it will shut up and just let his body feel.

When they reach their respective peaks, which by some incredible coincidence happen at the same time, he comes so hard he almost passes out. Feels the shout of his release rasping along his throat more than he hears it.

He realizes that he can no longer trust any man in this shithole of a prison, even himself. Somehow, the sheer perversity of this drags the last few thin ropes of semen out of him, balls clenching one final time before he collapses on the mattress, spent and sated and wishing he'd roomed with that crazy African motherfucker after all, so he could have just been peacefully shanked in his sleep and put out of any potential misery.

"Mmm, that was nice," the middle-aged bigot chuckles. He leans over and whispers in one still-sensitive ear. "You're a sweet piece of ass, prag. I may just have to keep you around for a while." Another mock-affectionate pat on the rear. Accidentally-on-purpose hitting his cigarette-burn swastika brand, indelible souvenir of their first night together, in the process.

He doesn't cry that night when, once again, he can't sleep from all the shame and disgust roiling in his gut. The tears won't come. He has crossed the line, become one of them. One of the inmates. No better than he ever thought he was, even back when he was the kind of upper-middle-class alcoholic asshole who'd drive around shitfaced enough to fracture a little girl's skull on his windshield. Even back when it suddenly dawned on him that he was going to be made an example of in this hellhole rather than lounging his sorrows away at some cushy Club Fed.

The man he was is dead. Long live the man - if one can call him that - he now is.

He goes to bed with a bitter smile on his lips, dreaming of the next time he'll take it from his supposed protector and like it. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was looking forward to it.

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