Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  The sound of pissing flooded through his labouring breath.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Heat sizzled through sinew, the heat of exertion ...

  ... and the hot feel of his cock hard against his belly.

  The pissing stopped.

  Jas dragged himself up to the window and hovered there, listening to the metal drag of zipping over the thump of his heart. He waited for the pad of retreating footsteps, for the creak Stevie’s body would make as he hurled himself onto the top bunk.

  Nothing.

  Flashes of other times erupted in his mind ...

  ... of the physical closeness of changing-rooms, the shower room at C Division’s rugby practice ... men he had worked with, men he had known ...

  ... of parks, toilets, beaches ... men whose faces he barely registered and would never see again, but whose bodies he would know intimately.

  Young men. Old men.

  White men ... occasionally Asian men.

  Married men.

  Men with boyfriends, girlfriends, wives ... kids ... homes ... lives ...

  A clanging sound. Then: “Fuck!”

  One of Stevie’s hastily discarded boots impacted with the aluminium piss-pot.

  His cell-mate was close – very close. Jas could no long feel the muscles in his arms, but at least they were functioning. The smell of his sweat was strong and salty: sea-salty. Mixed with the scent of piss and a faint odour of disinfectant, the stink took him to another, equally unwanted environment ...

  ... early teens. Family summers at the beach. Ancient lavatories with a whispered reputation his thirteen-year-old mind could make no sense of. Adult warnings versus teenage curiosity ...

  Something burned in his right arm.

  Jas released the bars, felt his feet touch the floor. He turned, groin aching with the need to piss and the hard-on which made that impossible.

  A hand on his arm. Fingers tightening.

  Eyelids shot open. Jas blinked into amber.

  A laugh. “Work oot regularly?”

  The fingers on his biceps were acid, burning through to the bone. Jas pulled away. “Aye ...”

  One last squeeze of muscle, then his arm released. The Stevie-shape turned away. “Ah huvney got the patience ...” The Stevie-shape picked up a boot.

  An arm brushed against his groin. His heart stuttered, then found a louder, heavier voice.

  “... maybe ah’m just lazy – workin’ oot’s too much trouble ...”

  In his mind, the arm was still there, became a hand ... the hand that made excuses to be there. Jas closed his eyes and thought of his curious, thirteen-year-old prick in the grip of older, equally curious fingers.

  ... swimming-trunks couldn’t hide what his mind had tried to. Standing in damp darkness, he thought of other damp darknesses, of his faceless lover’s dry hand inside the trunks on his sea-wet, sandy balls. He remembered the confusion, the vague tremors of fear mixed with unbridled pleasure as the man had caressed him to orgasm, while his brothers and sister ate sandy banana sandwiches, yards away.

  Sweat cooled rapidly on his burning skin. Jas shivered, damp Barlinnie air erecting every hair on his body. His heart sank. His cock leapt. His balls tensed, a thin film of sweat shimmering on the skin.

  Twice more, that summer, he’d gone to other toilets, hung about and waited for the same thing to happen.

  It never did ...

  ... and when he’d finally summoned up the courage to risk a fumbling hand towards a stranger’s prick ...

  He rubbed his face, remembering the look of revulsion in the man’s eyes, the push which had sent him sprawling backwards onto the wet toilet floor and the sight of a rapidly departing sports jacket.

  “Show me a coupla exercises, Jas-man? The morra, maybe?” He pushed hands back over hair and stared at the Stevie-shape. Those hands holding those ankles, the closeness, the feel ...

  ... Jas reached out into darkness, fingers settling loosely on a heavy shoulder. He rubbed the bristly line at the back of Stevie’s neck.

  All types of power ...

  ... he’d never felt so powerless. “Aye, maybe.” He aimed a playful fist at the approximate area of Stevie’s mid-section.

  A laugh. His cell-mate dodged to one side, then batted the side of his face. “Wanna take me on, Jas-man?” Half taunt. Another test?

  Jas scowled. His dominance in the cell had been asserted by fists and bulk. He wanted nothing else from this man ...

  ... not like this. He gripped the strong chin. “Gie it a rest, eh?”

  Flesh flinched in his grip. Stevie’s laugh died, replaced by something else.

  Jas’s cock flexed. He released the chin, moving away.

  Pupils expanding in the dark, he watched the Stevie-shape vault onto the upper bunk.

  “Whit wiz aw’ that wi’ the boay?” Curious.

  Hand paused on zipper. “Whit boay?”

  “The wan wi’ a face like a rat – the wan you gave the H tae.” Jas frowned. “He wiz gettin’ hassle – ah couldney jist stand by an’ ...”

  “Aye ye could ...” Low voice. “... it’s none o’ your business.”

  Stevie was right. He pulled off combat pants, boots, then the red underwear. His business was finding out the possible whereabouts of Paul McGhee ...

  He walked towards the double bunk.

  ... and doing that was proving difficult enough. An arm through the darkness:

  “Fancy a smoke?”

  Jas shook his head. Every muscle in his body ached with the force of the work-out.

  The sound of a match stroking, then smoke drifting down through the darkness.

  As he crouched, pulling back the thin blanket, another muscle made itself known. “Good night, Stevie.”

  “Night, Jas-man!”

  Eighteen

  THE COLD WOKE HIM.

  And stomach cramps. Jas levered himself off the cot and padded across the stone floor.

  Dim, lunar light spangled off aluminium and bleached the skin on his legs. He held his prick loosely, sighed with relief. His balls tingled, but the cramping in his stomach lessened as he continued to piss.

  Soft snoring behind.

  Jas listening to the sound of liquid on metal, thumb and forefinger tightening around his shaft. He glanced over his shoulder at the Stevie-shaped hump in the top bunk.

  A spurt of urine hit the wall behind the bucket as his prick began to harden in his hand.

  He turned away, clearing his mind and willing himself soft. As the last few dribbles dropped from his cock, a shudder rippled over ashen skin.

  Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

  Jas turned back to his bunk, fumbled for a blanket and ...

  Keys scraping. Turning. The cell door swung open.

  Bright light in his eyes.

  Not moonlight.

  Jas froze.

  From the top bunk: “Whit the ...?”

  “Shut it, McStay!” Two sets of hands grabbed his bare arms, pulling him off balance.

  Jas wrenched himself away.

  Hands regripped.

  He ducked his head, peered beyond the torch beam to a group of figures on the dark walkway, eyes blinking. Another cost-cutting measure by Hadrian flashed into his mind, just before Neil Johnstone did.

  “Oi! Whit’s this? Lea’ him ...!”

  “Keep oota this, McStay!” Fingers tightened.

  Someone grabbed his waist, trying to hold him there.

  Fingers pulled harder, dragging him towards the doorway. Voice in his ear:

  “Move it, Anderson – or yer bum-chum comes tae.”

  Seconds later, his bare feet scraped the hard metal of the walkway. He tried to focus on faces. Failed. He tried to assess numbers. Failed again. Pushed against the railing, he was held there, a hand on the back of his neck.

  The sounds of relocking ...

  ... then banging. From the inside. Stevie’s shouts and the thump of his feet faded as Jas half-walked, half-stumbled blindly towards
the stairs.

  “Whit is aw’ this?”

  No response.

  He didn’t really expect an answer, but it was worth a try.

  Pause. Unlocking.

  His eyes were getting used to the gloom. Four men – two holding him, one walking behind. In front an outline hauled the gate open. Jas looked upwards.

  No red eye logged their progress.

  Hands pushed him forward.

  He’d considered breaking free a good two blocks back. Then disregarded the idea: where could he go? The gate was relocked behind. Keys rattled. He flicked his head left, then right.

  Faces were dark silhouettes, occasionally illuminated by a rogue beam from the torch. Features unreadable.

  No one talked ... no one had talked since the brief sentences, back in the cell. Even then the voice had been unfamiliar. And familiar.

  Male.

  Adult.

  Glasgow accent.

  Jas stumbled on. “Whit’s this all aboot?”

  Another no response.

  His brain was working too fast. Thoughts sprinted past. He clutched at their tails and held only confusion ...

  ... and the unmistakable beginnings of fear.

  Abruptly, he was pushed sideways.

  No scraping of keys. This corridor was unlocked.

  Light blinded him. Hands propelled then released him. His face impacted on polished wood.

  Jas shook his head, raised himself onto all fours, then turned.

  This corridor wasn’t a corridor ...

  The large, open space of a gymnasium loomed around him.

  ... and it did have a lock. Jas focused on the back of a denimed figure, at present inserting and turning a key which dangled from a large, official-looking bunch. The gym was huge after the smallness of his cell, smelled vaguely of sweat and an odour which reminded him of schools. His heart speeded up, keeping pace with his racing brain. He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. Fists clenched. Jas examined his captors, trying to ignore the disorienting effect of his surroundings.

  Faces ...

  ... faces he didn’t know, but who evidently knew him. Three remained at the door. One began to circle.

  Jas followed the movement with his naked body.

  No one spoke. Over the sound of measured bootsteps, the silence pressed in on him. Jas frowned: he knew the technique ...

  ... continued to mirror the circles, trying to ignore his vulnerability. He registered ancient wall bars, a couple of limp-looking punch bags and a vaulting horse which should have been put out to pasture years ago.

  Instinct told him the four men in the room were not into subtlety.

  Instinct told him the intimidation would be brief.

  Instinct told him there was little he could do against four.

  He scanned floor and walls for visible weapons.

  Nothing.

  Eyes flicked to the door.

  The three men had moved.

  Panic surged through his veins. Adrenalin joined the brew. His balls tightened, drawing up towards his body. Eyes darting, he searched for the rest of ...

  ... and found them too late. Arms grabbed him from behind. A dull thud to the side of his head, heard more than felt.

  Jas reared backwards, as he’d done with Stevie two nights ago. The trick didn’t work this time.

  Hands held him firmly. A dull thud in his stomach.

  The blow heard and felt. Jas buckled, air rushing from his lungs.

  Something hit him again.

  Lower.

  He crumpled, eyes watering. He fought the instinct to curl, clutch his genitals and go fetal. His brain careered out of control and towards things he didn’t want to think about:

  A screaming boy in the cell three-down.

  The well-muscled figures in a corridor.

  Neil Johnstone ...

  A hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back.

  Rage diluted the pain and rendered it useful. Jas cleared his throat and spat.

  The man leapt back, wiping phlegm from his cheek.

  Bracing himself against those behind. Jas drew up his knees, then kicked.

  Bulls-eye!

  Fingers briefly loosened.

  Jas pulled knees back to belly, felt his own thigh against his injured groin. He gritted his teeth, doubled over and tried to throw the men behind.

  It half-worked.

  Then pressure on his throat.

  Jas tried to twist away from the hand. The movement was useless.

  Watery green eyes fired into his.

  His own eyes refused to focus.

  The hand on his throat tightened and squeezed.

  Something buzzed in his ears. Spangling on the edge of his blurry vision. A tingling in his fingers. Then he was moving again. His feet hit the ground, legs buckling beneath him.

  The hand released his windpipe.

  Jas gulped in air. Knees scraped along worn, wooden floor.

  Something impacted with his belly.

  Not a fist.

  Bigger ... more solid. He tried to kick. His legs wouldn’t work. Then someone worked them for him.

  Coldness around his ankles ... then wrists.

  He prayed for the pain to return and bring the adrenalin.

  The prayer went unanswered. His body was numb and limp.

  Leather-encased hands cuffed his legs and wrists to something cold and hard.

  And heavy.

  Vision stabilised. Jas blinked at the worn surface of the vaulting-horse, inches from his face. Icy air brushed his thighs and arse. Muscle clenched instinctively as unwanted sensation returned to his body. Pressed against padded leather, his balls ached.

  Good with the bad.

  Shreds of strength returned with the pain. He hauled against the metal restraints, then gave up. Another useless instinct: the vaulting-horse was bolted to the floor. Through the buzzing and pounding in his ears, he fought to make sense of the sounds behind him ...

  ... then something that needed no explanation. Blood rose in his face as strong hands gripped the cheeks of his arse, wrenching. Jas tried to relax. His mind fought the clench of his sphincter and lost the battle.

  Fingers pulled harder.

  Instinct fought on ...

  ... he heard rather than felt tearing. Then something hit the side of his head:

  “Come on, Queer-boy – ya ken ya want it!” Laughing.

  His body floated away, released by another blow to his head. Through the numbness, hands gripped his shoulders ...

  ... and hot hardness drove into his arse.

  Wetness on his face. Scarlet skin heating salted water. Jas closed his eyes. He concentrated on the sounds around him, then pushed them away. Voices crowded in on him. Pressure ...

  ... building, thudding, stretching pressure.

  He knew the pain in his arse was a cock when it came inside him. Jas tried to breath normally, but his body wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Then something made it.

  The cock was pulled out. His arse-hole gaped, then was immediately refilled.

  He pressed his burning face against the worn nap of the vaulting horse. He could smell them, smell their bravado and the sour stench of his own terror.

  Someone grabbed one ear, wrenched his head up and grabbed the other, Jas rode the pain like the cock rode him: awkwardly.

  Another show ...

  ... words in his ears. “Ye’ve got a big mooth, Anderson – but no’ as big as yer arsehole’s gonny be when we’ve finished with ye.”

  Not the voice of the man fucking him: too calm ...

  ... he bit through his bottom lip.

  “Guid cunt, eh boys?”

  Laughing ... and panting and ... something hot and salty leaked from his eyes and cooled on his hot face ...

  The cock inside him jerked, then slid out.

  Jas spat blood. Hand released his ears. Two down ...

  ... two to go.

  Somewhere on the edge of sensation, movement. Against wrists
and ankles, removing the cuffs. Hauled from the support of the vaulting horse, he fell against someone.

  Who caught him, laughed and pushed him away.

  Jas slumped back against someone else, limbs lead and cotton wool at the same time.

  Hands held him tightly, pushed him forward. He broke the fall with aching arms.

  Pressure on his fingers. Boot pressure.

  Another cock bumped off his arse-cheek, stabbed twice more then hit home.

  He fell, hot cheek pressed to the gymnasium floor, knees dragging. An arm under him, hauling his body onto all fours.

  More wetness, beneath skin rubbed raw by friction.

  He vomited bile. Someone growled in disgust. A boot left his right hand and hit his cheek ...

  ... then a voice: “Keep yer nose oota whit disney concern ye, Anderson ...”

  Pain in his head.

  “... or next time we’ll no’ be so nice aboot it!”

  Laughter zeroed in, then pulled away. Raw tingles inside him ...

  ... then emptiness. And darkness.

  More words. Hauling him up from a dark, quivering tunnel. Shouted words:

  “Bastards! Fuckin’ animals! You’re fuckin’ dead, ya ...”

  Jas flinched. Something tight around him. He fought it, fought the journey from numbness into sensation.

  It retightened.

  He stopped struggling against the arm. It relaxed a little.

  A hand on his face. He flinched again.

  “Oh, Jas-man, whit the fuck ...?”

  He tried to move. Coughed. The dregs of someone’s spunk oozed down the back of a thigh. And something less viscose. Jas opened his eyes. Semi-darkness. Flesh pulsed and stung. Everywhere. He could smell ammonia and his own blood.

  The hand moved from his face. “Hold oan ...” Sounds of rummaging. Then swearing.

  He moaned, reclosed his eyes and sought the black. “How long ...” The words came out as a formless mumble. Jas coughed again. Warmth trickled from his nose. “How long ...?”

  Coldness against his hot lips. Then wetness.

  He gulped down water, choked on a metallic taste. A hand behind his head, holding him steady. The liquid burned. He swallowed it desperately. “How long have ah been ...?”

  “No’ long. Jas-man ...” The sound of splashing.

  The black on his eyelids turned bright red.