I have never before written a story so long and towards the end it was taking me over! This is a collaboration between me and Brook (of course). She's my inspiration always. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It is a dark one!
WARNING the stort contains some scenes of male on male rape. If this offends, read no further.
The scenes of prison are authentic - based on 2 prisons in America and 2 prisons here in the UK - as are the activities that go on in those establishmnets (no, it isnt just my sick mind!)
Disclaimer - I don't own 'em and I don't make any money from 'em, but i do like to plague them some!
Dedication - to all those wonderful readers, especially those who take the time to leave a review - Angie, Gail, Xtex, Brook, Julie and many more. Thanks so much
Chapter 1
The man in cell 255 woke up early (or at least he thought it was early) on the East Hallway and opened his eyes to stare up at the bright yellow light screwed into a cage buried in the grimy ceiling. It greeted him with a bright sardonic stare like a vision of a miniature sun, although he'd not seen that particular orb for some time, being that there wasn't a window in the tiny room. A window would have made the place feel too "normal"; too much like home and that would never do. So the three featureless walls and the fourth wall which had the outline of a door carved into it were left without decoration and without a feature on which the curly haired guy could fix. There was, in short, nothing to relieve the tedium. The lights in that particular hallway didn't ever go off and neither did they get any dimmer, which helped to throw his body clock off kilter and make him feel disorientated and de-humanised. How was he supposed to know when it was morning, or evening, or time to eat? Not that it really mattered. Nothing really mattered too much any more and so he stared fatalistically at the ceiling and waited.
Eventually, other more pressing issues started to engage Starsky's mind and he rolled himself off of the bed with a slight groan, his back complained by cracking in several different places like firecrackers - the culprit, a three and a half inch mattress, dark green in color and made by "The Easy Relaxer Company". The brunet always snorted at that. As if anyone could relax on that wafer thin piece of foam! He certainly hadn't been able to in the three and a half weeks he'd been here. The absence of sun or window meant that the prison cell had no warmth either. The only warmth its occupant received was from three dark green and paper-thin "Relaxer Company" blankets and his own imagination, which during his incarceration had not been disposed to think about Caribbean Islands or Miami. The overhead air conditioner was vicious and the chilled air it threw into the confined space could not be shut out by the blankets so that Starsky was always cold. The sound of the machinery droned 24/7 slicing into the silence and gnawing at his nerves. Overall – his room is not the most pleasant. Plus mornings – and he presumed it was morning because of the other sounds from other cells - were always dismal.
The curly haired man's bladder was pulsing uncomfortably now. His partner had always told him he had a bladder the size of a pea anyhow, but he didn't want to think about that either. Memories of Hutch were too raw; too painful and so Starsky slipped on his prison issue sandals and crossed the room to his own private buzzer. It was like a doorbell and when pressed, a speaker on the ceiling became an intercom. Expressing his needs was as easy as talking into a hole in the wall for the brunet cop who was lodged in solitary confinement.
After a few seconds, a scratchy voice broke the silence.
'What?'
'I need to go to the bathroom' the brunet grunted, hating the fact that even the free will to relieve himself whenever he wanted had been taken away from him. Although he deserved it, he knew that. It was just so damned difficult to come to terms with, and also fraught with danger when the guards came in. The famous Starsky temper had flared once or twice while he'd been inside and had been quelled equally rapidly by batons and handcuffs, but for the most part, the brunet took whatever treatment was meted out without question. He was a prisoner. He'd committed a crime and he should suffer the consequences.
'Hold on' the disembodied voice answered curtly. After maybe a minute, his door swung open and the cop hurried down the hall towards the small toilet block at the end. The corridor was deserted, lined with similar 10 x 10 foot square compartments that Bay City Penitentiary liked to call cells but there was no need for a guard to accompany him. There was nowhere to run to and no doors left unlocked. The place was on full lock down all the time. The prison was based on the lock down system where the inmates were locked inside their tiny shoeboxes for 23 out of 24 hours per day. They saw no-one, they spoke to no-one and they were given nothing to occupy their minds, the principle being that if they contemplated their actions long enough, they'd begin to self correct – even though most of the inmates on the Eastern Hallway were on remand awaiting trial and had yet to be convicted. More than one man had been dragged from his cell screaming, gone completely mad by the loneliness, but Starsky hated the visits by the guards even more than he hated the hours of silent contemplation and when his door was closed, he felt safe.
The brunet allowed himself the luxury of an extra minute in the urinals. It wasn't the most salubrious place to be, smelling of disinfectant and other, less wholesome odors, but any view that wasn't those four stinking pale grey walls of his cell seemed like luxury and he milked every extra second of escape before reluctantly pulling up the elasticated waist of his dark blue prison issue fatigues and heading back into the corridor. He walked back up the echoing corridor and through the door back into his "house" and went back to lie on his bed with thoughts of freedom on his mind, for the clang of keys and for the directions for the morning. He hadn't slept well, but that was nothing new. He hadn't been sleeping well for months, not since before….. Well not since this whole fucking thing had started, but he guessed he didn't deserve to rest easy either. Not when Hutch was still gravely sick. For a moment he allowed himself to think about the blond. How was he? Was he recovering? Was he even aware of what had happened? Jeez, was Starsky able to make any sense of it yet? The answer to that was probably no. He'd shot Hutch. He'd left him for dead. He deserved to be punished. Period.
'Get up, sweep and mop your rooms, brush your teeth and make your beds! Get up, get up . . . '. The disembodied voice on the intercom sounded loud and made him jump. He was jumpy most of the time these days, not least because right now was the only time when Starsky come into contact with the other inmates on the hallway – and most of those men knew he was a cop and some of them were in the Pen because he'd helped to put them there. One or two had already registered their displeasure at finding that David Michael Starsky was now reduced from Bay City Cop to jail inmate and he had a cracked rib, a black eye and more bruises than he cared to count from his encounters. The guards did nothing except wade in with their batons. But contact was contact, and after 23 days of incarceration, Starsky looked forward to any sort of human contact, painful or otherwise, in a perverse sort of way.
Throwing his towel around his neck and stretching carefully, the brunet shuffled his morning shuffle behind the guy in 254 and in front of the guy in 256 down to the rack of toothbrushes, about faced, and walked into the bathroom. Four sinks, bolted to the wall, provide about seven toothbrushers with a little space and some water. This part wasn't too bad. Starsky could handle this, it was almost like being back at boot camp in the army, except that then, he'd had Traff and his other friends around him, feeling friendship and some happiness, rather than the waves of antagonism and pent up anger that permeated the jail. He looked neither left nor right, not wanting to chance another painful altercation. Once done he wiped his mouth with his rough prison issue towel and threw it into a bin of dirty laundry. He grabbed a broom and mop and trudged back to his room but as he got to the door, he stopped and suddenly his mouth went dry. Waiting inside his small cell, Starsky saw three of the larger guards waiting for him. Any thoughts of the outside and the "normal" world fled and he licked dry lips.
'Well if it aint the dirty pig, come back to clean his pig sty' Guard Grogan muttered, his hand resting lightly on the handle of his baton. 'Come in and close the door behind ya, Blue Eyes, moppin' your rooms a full contact sport, you know that.'
Starsky paused, his knuckles showing white against the handle of his broom. This had been happening now for the past four days. For some reason, Grogan and his buddy Rafferty had taken a shine to him, or at least to a certain portion of his anatomy, and the brunet tried to back up, away from the two large men.
'Where're you goin?' Rafferty asked, taking a step closer. 'Don't ya want any company?'
'No' Starsky said sullenly. His wise cracks had dried up the day he'd seen his partner shot and bleeding at the old fairground. Shot with his bullets from Starsky's own Smith and Wesson held in Starsky's own hand. After that, there didn't seem to be much point in talking, so he kept uncharacteristically quiet.
'Aww, he don't want to play!' Grogan smiled, wolfishly. 'Well aint that a shame? You ought to know by now, you don't have the right to anythin' pig, not even your body. Your ass is ours, literally. Now, you know the score. Assume the position.'
Starsky's indigo blue eyes darted between one guard and the other. They were both taller than he was and heavier by 20 or 30 pounds, although it was all solid muscle. He saw them place their hands on their batons, ready and knew what that meant. In the past four days, they'd enjoyed using him for their pleasures, if not with their bodies, then with those same batons, and the brunet's ass clamped closed reflexively at the memory of the cold hard metal being forcibly pushed into his opening, his muscles cracking and the thin trickle of blood wending it's way down is inner thigh. But there was no escape. There was no blond avenging angel going to come and save him this time. This was no undercover assignment where he could blow the whistle when things got too tough and Dobey would send in the cavalry to get him out. This was real life and he was on the Eastern Hallway awaiting sentence for attempted murder. This time he was on his own and this time he'd have to handle things himself.
Right now, handling things meant either risking a few more broken bones, or complying with the guard's wishes. Rape in prison was taken for granted – not many prisoners got away without the indignity, but with those more handsome inmates, and Starsky definitely fell into that category, the assaults were more frequent and for the most part, more brutal.
Grogan was watching the curly haired prisoner with hawk-like eyes and it was obvious he was just waiting for a chance to get physical. 'I said, assume the position' he repeated, his hand twitching on his baton.
Reluctantly, Starsky got to his knees, the cold concrete of the cell floor biting into his bones through the thin prison issue uniform. He put his hands behind his back and laced his fingers together, staring at a spot on the far wall as he waited for the inevitable. It didn't take long in coming and Rafferty walked towards him in a predatory fashion, the bulge in his trousers tenting his uniform. With his right hand the guard unzipped himself and his phallus sprang out in front of Starsky's face.
'Aww, look what's happened' Rafferty crowed. 'That's all your fault, Blue Eyes. Now you're gonna have to take care of it. Open wide and say aah.'
The brunet refused to look at the rod of flesh bobbing in front of him. He could do this. He'd done it for the past four days, and if it was just oral and not rape, that'd be easier. He deserved this, he knew he did for what he'd done, but his mind rebelled, his body tensing as the flesh came closer.
With a deep breath, and with Rafferty's hands closing around the back of his head, forcing him closer, Starsky opened his mouth and was about to allow the cock entry when the door of his cell was pushed open and a voice from the corridor called in.
'Visit for 02698. Get him ready, he needs to come now.'
'Dammit, I thought I was gonna be the one comin' Rafferty snapped and swiftly zipped himself up. He looked at the prisoner on the ground and snorted. 'Sorry ya won't have the pleasure of me, but there's always this evening Blue Eyes. Now go see which one of your other fans wants to see you.'
Starsky got to his feet with alacrity, thankful for the reprieve and quickly walked out of his cell without a backwards glance. As he got into the corridor he stopped automatically while the third guard pushed him against the wall while he buckled the heavy leather belt round his waist, attaching the cuffs on the strong chains to his wrists and ankles. Shackled and hobbled, the brunet followed in an awkward shuffling gait along the long corridor and turned to the left, through a door into the visiting hall.
As he walked through the door, he looked up, expecting to see his lawyer waiting for him. His breath hitched in his throat however, as he saw the tall blond man standing waiting for him. Hutch looked pale, weary and thin, but he smiled as Starsky appeared and was about to wave with the right hand – the one not held in a sling close to his body. Starsky, however, was not as happy to see the blond as with a small strangled yelp, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps.
'I can't do that boss' he muttered to the guard and without waiting for further instructions, he made his way back to his cell.
