Page 74 of Caged In

“Shut up,” the shorter of the four men spits out, “no one gives a shit, bitch. Someone gag him.”

Izz’s expecting a sock, shirt, dirty old cloth. Being dragged backwards over to the end of the bunk, so his head hangs over the edge, is not what he expects. And it only gets worse. When one of the inmates steps around behind him, their legs on either side of his head. An evident bulge pushing at the front of their grey prison pants.

“N-n-no. NO. NO. GET OFF ME.” Izz kicks his legs as hard as he can. Nothing budges, he can’t knock them free, whoever’s pinning his legs is an immovable wall—

Izz’s eyes fill with tears at the feeling of his pants being tugged down, the rough hands cold as ice on his exposed hip. The sickening touch is something he’s never going to forget. If he lives after they’re done with him. They could beat him to death.

Why is this happening to me. What did I do to earn this much ill intent?

“Get off me. LET GO.”

Izz screams. He pulls at his arms, twists his hips. He tries everything to pull free.

“I said gag the bitch, hurry up,” the angry inmate giving the orders shoves Izz’s shirt up, displaying his lean figure to the entire cell.

The man by Izz’s head grabs his hair, wrenching his head back. He isn’t having any of it. He twists his head to the side. Turning every time the man tries to get a good grip in his hair.

“He won’t stop fucking moving, the angle is off.”

Izz tries his hardest to pull his arm free, focusing every bit of his strength into one arm. If he can get one free he has a chance of fighting back—

Izz’s field of view spins, the hands on his body releasing and grabbing hold once more as he is flipped onto his stomach. The coordination of the movements, the lack of conversation between his attackers—they’ve done this before. To have a system with little to no words required.

How many victims have come before me—

Cold fingers press between his ass cheeks, slick with something gross and slimy—

Izz grunts, crying out as two fingers force their way inside. His tears falling, sliding down his cheeks as he’s violated by a complete stranger in a rankprison cell. He completely forgets he’s fighting to keep his head out of the other man’s grip.

A harsh tug in his hair pulls Izz’s head up, his lapse in concentration working in the man’s favour to pin him where the other wants. The straining on his neck is stretching his muscles beyond their limits.

He’s greeted with an inmate’s revolting . . .thingbobbing in front of his face—

He clamps his jaw shut, he can’t see much through the wavering of his vision as his tears flow. But he can see enoughto know the inmate is holding that disgusting . . .thing, and stepping into Izz’s space.

“Open up, whore. Jay-Jay, open the whore up.”

Izz doesn’t have time to process the words, before an excruciating pain shoots up his spine, radiating down the backs of his thighs, as a third—or fourth—he can’t tell, it hurts too badly—finger shoves its way inside. He cries out, opening his mouth—

A mistake he can’t correct in time. The inmate at his head takes advantage of Izz’s parted lips, shovingtheir way down histhroat. Causing him to choke and squirm. Trying to pull away as he gags on the salty length invading his throat. Shoving all the way down. He can feel his muscles straining. The pain in his throat colliding with the agony further down his body.

Izz’s legs are shoved apart, the invading digits unceremoniouslypulled out. The sting followed by a warm trickle down the inside of his thigh. He’s bleeding, it has to be blood. What else would it be.

He already knows what’s about to happen. As much as he prays for it to never come. He knows what’s about to unfold. And he can’t do anything to prevent it.

He tenses up—he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, tensing will only make it hurt worse—he can’t help it. He can’t stop his body’s instinctive reaction to protect itself and he can’t prevent this from happening.

He’s weak.

A disgrace.

How can he call himself a man if he can’t defend himself against something like this?

I’m a weak coward.

The hold in his hair tightens as the inmate groans, shoving in deeper. Choking Izz more. He can’t breathe. His body’spanicking. He’s gagging. He wants to pass out. He doesn’t want to feel anything.

If he stops fighting. If he stops trying to preventthis, it’ll be over faster. They’ll be done with him faster. He has to stop resisting or it’s only going to drag out longer . . .

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