Collared

by Jane Davitt




"Up against the wall. Spread 'em." Jim's voice is rough, impatient, but with an undercurrent of boredom smoothing it out. Another day, another bust, another punk caught in the net…nothing new.

Eyes bright with challenge and not a shred of anxiety stare up at him and lips twist in an arrogant sneer. "Hey, watch where you put your hands, cop. My dad's got connections and he'll --"

Jim's hands grip and twist and he slams the boy against the dorm wall with a practiced, lazy ease between one breath and the next. "How about I connect your wrists with a pair of cuffs, hmm?"

He pins the wiry body to the wall with his elbow grinding into the boy's back until the squirming stops and the boy pants out a vicious stream of curses, his voice breaking on the final 'fuck you' in a way that makes Jim smile thinly. He takes his time frisking his prisoner, his hands roaming with a leisurely, possessive quasi-gentleness over the quivering tenseness. Yeah, the kid's starting to realize that the rules have changed. A lifetime of knowing that his parents didn't dare spank him, his teachers weren't allowed to chastise or scold, a single shove or push could be grounds for suing -- and now his ass was being palmed, his thighs stroked wider, and Jim's hands knew the shape of him.

"Oh, they're gonna love you inside," he whispers into an ear decorated with metal, pierced in so many places that the loops of metal clash and crowd each other, a clang and clink, silvery, bright. "Sweet little boy like you…they'll fight to be the first to nail you. Enjoy being wanted while you can, because after that, you'll be just another piece of meat, tenderized and bloody. Raw. Your ass is gonna be split open --"

"No! Please! God, you can't let them do that --" The boy's breath catches on a moan.

"See how easy I broke you?" Jim murmurs, each word an intimate, fleeting kiss on skin hot with shame and salted with tears. "Thought you were tough, didn't you? Daddy's money bought you a lot, but it never bought you a pair, huh? You're sweet and they're gonna eat you up like ice cream, pump that lying mouth full of --"

"I'll tell you! Please, I'll tell you --"

The cuffs click closed and the boy whines, a shocked, terrified sound, as he struggles to break their grip.

"You're mine now," Jim says indifferently, casually. "Roll over on the men who gave you the drugs to sell and I'll let you swim away. Lie to me, or lawyer up, and you're bait, wriggling on a hook, and I'll feed you to the fish."

He rests his weight on the boy, just for a moment, blanketing the slim body with his own powerful frame, engulfing him. He can smell the acid tang of fear and the tangled mess of arousal and submission that's got its own sweet, compelling stink. For a moment, the boy arches back, his ass pressing into the waiting cradle of Jim's groin, but Jim's already moving away, his mouth set in a contemptuous sneer.

Punk.

He turns him over to a uniform for processing and forgets his name before he's halfway home.

He'll put Blair up against the wall when he gets there, Blair's palms abraded by gritty bricks, Blair's naked back gleaming in the firelight. Fuck Blair's ass with a slow, merciless insistence and wait to come until Blair's cock, untouched, un-tasted, has spilled spunk over the wall he's up against, marking it with white trails. Jim will bury himself deeply into Blair's welcoming warmth, his climax leaving him shaking, shuddering, still silent, and then kneel and lick Blair clean, cock and ass, turning Blair's quietly compliant body this way and that.

Whispering to Blair between licks that he's sorry and intending his words for another man, a boy, a scared, crying kid whose world's a shade darker tonight. The boy whose friend died trying to fly off a building, juiced up on the drugs sold to him by Jim's collar, that fucking slime of a rich kid dealing for kicks.

The boy whose blue eyes, wide, shocked, had pleaded with Jim for an answer and reminded him enough of Blair that he'd stepped over the line to get that answer for him and lost something on the way.

Blair's hands stroke his hair, gently, lovingly. "It's over," he whispers. "It's done, Jim."

Jim rests his aching head against Blair's leg and tries to breathe without smelling or tasting anything. Yeah. He's done. God, he's so done with this --



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