I Became A Beast

The noise of a lube bottle made him snort, and he almost made a smart remark about it but he decided to bite his tongue, a rare occurrence. Once again he was easily motivated by the lure of a good fuck. Iago didn't like to think too hard. He preferred animal comforts. Some people would call it an addictive personality. He didn't like to think about it.

"Beg?" He arched an eyebrow. "You want me to-" Jacob finished and he laughed, relaxing a bit at the roleplay. Iago wouldn't beg, but he'd pretend to. The line was thin but it maintained his dignity. Or whatever he thought he had.

Jacob had seen Iago beg.

High or drunk off his ass, with a whiskey bottle and Santa hat on that stubborn fucking skull of his and a lopsided grin on his stupid face. He’d seen Iago beg for something else, too, had seen him beg Jacob to stop, almost like a dream, like a nightmare, unwanted and horrible. It was a thought Jacob liked to push aside, before it could take roots. Before it could fester and swell in unwelcome places and he could ask himself what that meant. And worse, what he’d done.

Jacob had seen Iago beg.

And it wasn’t… whatever this was.

Something about the laugh and the snort hit hard. Harder than it should have.

Something about it was almost demeaning, almost insulting.

And not even the miserable little lie, this poorly crafted illusion, not enough to be believable and too much to laugh it off, could save Jacob from his own mind. Something about it stirred up that old, ugly realisation again.

A big dick and a wallet. That was all he was worth.

Feral like a dog. And just as loyal. Just as stupid.

And he’d known it from the start, hadn’t he?

But if Iago only wanted a big dick, he could have that.

With a growl, and despite his souring mood, Jacob finally pushed forward, into the place that promised sweet relief and oblivion. Where he could forget about love and rejection, about humiliation and loyalty. And maybe, just maybe, for a moment or two, Jacob could even pretend.

Yeah, if Iago only wanted a big dick, he could have that.

So Jacob didn’t hesitate, didn’t give the boy any time to adjust. And once he was balls deep, stretching that tempting little hole wide, once the first shiver down his spine had subsided, Jacob started fucking into the kid’s heat without restraint or mercy, almost pushing him off the fucking desk.

But Jacob didn't slow down, didn't speak, didn't acknowledge him. That was fine. Better, even. Iago pushed his palms against the desk, digging his nails in. The friction against his skin felt good, almost grounding, as Jacob hammered into him, every thrust jarring his shoulders. He could feel Jacob’s cock dragging inside him, too thick, too deep. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t think past the sharp agony-pleasure-pain-pleasure rhythm Jacob set.

He should've been used to this. Used to Jacob fucking him senseless. But Christ, Jacob was always so fucking intense when he was like this.

Iago's mouth went slack. Wet, embarrassing sounds slipped out. He hated how Jacob could pull them out of him. Hated that Jacob knew how to pull them out of him. Because Jacob knew him. Knew him too well. Knew exactly how to make him unravel. And Jacob used that against him.

He threw his head back. He didn’t want Jacob to see his face. Didn’t want him to see how much he needed this. How much he hated needing it. How much he hated himself.

"I had not touched a cat in 15 years when an orange kitten wandered over to sit with me in the grass one day. I was left without adequate words to describe that experience. It reminded me that I am alive. It instilled in me a raw, unbridled happiness that I had never felt before, not even as a child. 

I have spent many hours with those cats, and still I am amazed at how perfectly they reject everything it means to be in prison. They are playful and unselfconscious, curious and silly, soft and cuddly.

Sometimes it is even more interesting to watch my fellow prisoners interact with our cats. All those hard cases doing hard time melt like butter on a summer sidewalk when they visit the felines, feed them, watch them chase the birds and bees, and when they make toys to entice the cats to play with them. 

I don’t think about the past when a cat hops in my lap. I don’t think of what I should or could have done. I don’t think about courts or life sentences or parole boards. What comes to mind is peace, and a sense that everything is going to be OK. What’s in the past needs to stay there if I want to have a future, if I want to be grateful for today and for the fact that I am no longer the person I once was.