Iwinced as he continued drumming into me.
“The girl you own, killing your parents. Rumor has it, Daddy was a bad man, is that right?” He spoke like he knew exactly who my scumbag father was. “Did he touch you, is that why you’re so fucked up? Did he touch you like I do? Did you enjoy it as much as you are now?” my pervert cellmate asked as he reached around my skinny frame to stroke my dick.
I gently shook my head, remembering the pain I’d previously caused myself. My action acted as my only form of communication. My father was scum, but he could barely look at me some days, let alone fucking touch me. His fingertips never graced my skin, just his knuckles.
“So, there are no excuses as to why you turned out the way you did?”
Plenty of them, and yes, my father was at fault, but not because of the reason they figured.
I ignored everything as he jabbered on in my ear, sprouting untrue tales and making inaccurate assumptions.
I stilled my head. I went with it, letting them believe what the fuck they wanted.
They may have seen my body while naked and pressed to the wall, but they’d never see my soul, my truth.
“I have daughters around your age. Boys like you make me sick,” said a voice in the background.
He made me sick, too. . . they all did.
I could feel the vomit creeping up my throat, the larger chunks of who-knew-what trying to squeeze around my permanent swelling and somehow make it out of my stuffed mouth.
I shuddered, feeling the twitch of the genitals inside me; I knew the creep was about to erupt.
I tried to shift closer to the stone wall, my fingers jabbing at the concrete. My inner thoughts prayed it would hold me up when this was all over.
My eyes flickered closed, and I waited for the heat of his orgasm to fill me. . . but it didn’t.
He liftedmy sweatshirt, and pulled out of me.
Heavy moans lashed the air—he was fucking loud. Loud enough for the world to hear my fucking shame. His filthy cum splashed my back, hot lashings of his scum whipping my skin.
I didn’t have time to feel the relief slip over me over the knowledge he was no longer touching me because pain had once again claimed all presidency.
The giant was behind me now. Strong fingers wrapped around both of my hands, dragging them up the wall and above my head. His other hand, fisting his dick. The head of his cock—giant like everything else about him—nudged its way between my ass cheeks.
“Don’t tense, kid,” his warning had my eyes widening. So did his nickname for me.
Kid. . . was my father’s impersonal name for me, and I heard his voice. I heard his fucking laugh as he reminded me I was never all that good at fucking listening.
I tensed, and the giant almost ripped me to fucking pieces.
He fucked me hard, pulling all the way out, slamming all the way back in, bruising internal spots and ripping me to shreds.
My tears flooded; I couldn’t hold them back. The vomit rose higher, forcing me to spread my tongue over the stained cotton filling my mouth to try and force it out.
“Got something to say?” the cell-sharing prick asked, pulling his dirty shorts free from my mouth, and readying himself to dress in them.
I didn’t think he’d be wearing them tonight. Not with my vomit breath all over them. Though, that said, his own shit stains hadn’t put him off.
My spew followed as the underwear was pulled from my mouth, splashing on the floor below and tarnishing my already grubby looking socks. It was hard to tell whether they were meant to be gray or white, but they were coated in brown now.
I bent over, losing my balance, giving the giant behind me deeper access, and the pain amplified with his deeper thrusts.
I opened my mouth to scream, a gift of music to his ears, but no scream came out. A second wave of sick hit the floor, rippling up my naked legs as I tried to force myself upright.
But he was quick to bend me back over, enjoying the leverage.
I blinked, catching my breath. My blurry gaze focused on the little white pills I’d taken just before bed, now nestled amongst this evening’s bland regurgitated meal.
