Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. Parsell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📗

have to do is take care of him-though I wasn't exactly sure what "taking care of him" would entail. Chet wasn't that had looking. If he first came here in the fifties, he must be in his late thirties. I just wished he were closer to my age.

Chet walked into the shower room and told me to follow him. I tried to tell him what I had decided, but I still couldn't get up, and now I couldn't even speak. For some reason my words were slurred worse than before. I couldn't understand a word he said. Suddenly, someone was at my side helping me to stand. The next thing I knew, I was standing in one of the dorms.

"Get on the bed," Chet ordered. My pants were gone. I didn't remember taking them off. My underwear was missing too. Chet got on top of one and pushed my face into the pillow, muffling my scream. Even with all of the spud juice that I drank, and the fruit, and the Thorazine (as I would find out later) that they spiked my drink with when I wasn't looking-wasn't enough to numb the pain of Chet thrusting himself inside me. It felt like I was being split wide open. I tried to let out a scream, but the air was sucked from my lungs by the sheer terror of what was happening.

Chet paused for a second and whispered in my ear, "Shh. It will stop hurting in a minute." But it didn't. He kept his hand on the back of my head, holding my face down as he pounded away at me, slowly at first and then with an increased rhythm. I sobbed into the pillow until he was done, and then he collapsed on top of me. The back of my neck and hair were wet with sweat. My breath slowed with his. I could hear his breathing in my ear, his heart pounding on my back. The pain had stopped, but I felt wet, like I was bleeding. But I don't think there was blood at first.

Chet ran his hand over the top of my head and then got up. I felt glued there. It was a bunk bed, and there were blankets draped on all sides, like the tents my brother and I used to make as kids. I could hear movement in the room and voices. In my shock, I couldn't make sense of anything. Someone pulled the blanket back and climbed into the bed. It was Red, and he didn't have any clothes on!

"Give me some face." He grabbed my hair and pulled my head to his crotch. He was huge, and I could barely open wide enough. "Watch your teeth," he said. He forced my mouth down on him. I didn't want to have sex-and this hardly counted as sex-but I felt like a coward. I couldn't say anything much less resist. It wouldn't have made a difference. Red weighed about 200 pounds of solid muscle. He looked like all he did was work out in the weight pit all day. His thighs were as big as my waist, and his dick was as thick as my wrist.

I couldn't breath. My nose was clogged from the spud juice or Thorazine or from my tears. He didn't care. I gasped for air and tried to time my breaths so I didn't suffocate, but then I vomited, and the spud juice and some of the fruit came up.

"Oh shit!" Red sprang from the bed. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it from under me. "Get up!" he yelled impatiently. I got off the blanket, and Red pulled it from the bed. He threw it to the floor, kicking it to the side. "Lie back down," he ordered. He was mean, and I was frozen. "Lie down," he yelled. His eyes widened as he stepped toward me. "Now turn over."

The pain was ten times what it was with Chet. I asked him to wait, and he told me to shut up. I sobbed uncontrollably. Where were the guards?

"Shut up, bitch, or I'll give you something to really cry about!" He put the pillow over my head and held it as he pounded me. My whole body felt like it was being stuffed.

"I can't breathe!" I screamed, "I can't breathe!" I struggled, but couldn't move. His weight was crushing me, and he was so strong I couldn't free myself from under his elbow that was holding the pillow down on my head.

Red stopped for a moment and lay there on top of me. I was so glad he was done, but the pain was still there. Please pull it out, I tried in vain to say, but couldn't mouth the words. He lifted the pillow from my face and said to me, "Are you going to stop screaming?" I couldn't answer. I started to cry again because I knew he wasn't finished. "I said, are you going to stop screaming?"

All I could do was nod my head. "All right then!" he said, and he removed the pillow and resumed humping me.

The worst of the pain had eased. Where once there had been a sharp cutting pain, now the pain was dull and pulverizing. With each thrust I could feel a deadening pressure in my stomach, about three inches above the hairline of my crotch. Could he be that big? Or was it my shit being jammed back into my intestines? I had never been fucked before, and it hurt in the worst way. More than I ever imagined. But this was violent and beyond anything I could have guessed. He didn't care that it hurt me and that I was in a lot of pain. He was enjoying the power he was exerting over me. This was what I deserved, I thought. This must be what happened to fags. This was what I got for being what I am. This was what I'd been warned about since I was