Taken

Every Tuesday morning (Adam keeps track) Bob steps into his cell, key still in hand and peers at him from the top of his glasses. He doesn’t need to do anything else. Adam already knows (same old routine), is eager even, in a passive sort of way. He stands up, removes his pants and shirt (Bob wants him naked) and walks to the table. The metal is cool against his palms as he leans over it, bendng down so that his body is spread like a buffet for Bob to feast on. Sharp rip of a zipper being opened, but Bob doesn’t undress (ever). Adam’s eyes close as he feels a hand creeping up his thigh, sliping inside (rough fingers), feeling him up, leisurely squeezing his buttocks until his legs are stretched as wide as they can be without him falling to the floor. A hand slides down his belly, taking hold of him until his cock is pink and yearning. The hand falls away (refused) and Adam mourns its loss. It won’t touch him again. An arm clamps onto his back (iron bar) and Bob enters him (takes, invades). No lube, no prep, nothing but skin and heat and pained light flashing behind his shutting eyelids. He moans, loudly and Bob arches toward the sound (loves it), pummeling into him, pushing him down until he’s pressed against the table and every stroke is a flame on his skin. He’s ripped open (ridden, like a horse), thrust upon thrust upon thrust striking that spot that makes the sun explode in his eyes.

Bob comes first (always), pulling back with as much suddenness as when he pushed in, leaving him lying there (exhausted, depleated). The door clicks shut before he can even force himself up on his elbows. He collapses on the bed, jerking off as quickly as he can, and bites his lip as the farthest thing from bliss crashes inside his soul. He stares at the white spunk coating his hand and starts counting the days again.