Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

33

Two weeks have come and gone since the day Izz had sex for the first time with Sin. And he’s not referring to the attempted time. No, the first time Sin had pinned him down and taken him until his legs were jelly and his ass was aching.

Since then, Sin has become more and more assertive, rougher—aggressive. Pushing Izz further each time they fuck. Or rather, each time Sin fucks him. He’s always the bottom, and he doesn’t mind. In fact, he revels in it.

He’s able to hold his breath longer, or rather, when he’s deprived oxygen, he could take it for longer and longer each time before his vision blurs. And he loves it. There are no limitations to how much it turns him on. To be held down and overpowered by Sin.

His body’s covered in bruises. In a whole range of colours. He can literally compare bruise colour ages in his skin. He has the whole healing colour chart mapped out on his body. And he couldn’t be happier.

Other inmates stay away from him. The whispers about him being killed by Sin are declining. The rest of the prison coming to terms with Izz sticking around to be Sin’s . . . plaything?

They are calling him the serial killer’s bitch boy. And he has no issues with it. He loves bottoming for Sin and he doesn’t care what the rest of the prison thinks about it. Just because he likes to be dominated doesn’t make him a coward or weak.

Sin’s opening his eyes to many darker sexual games he hadn’t known existed. Allowing him to accept who he is and not apologise for it. It doesn’t help that whenever he voices his annoyance with being called lesser for being the submissive in their relationship, Sin will pin him down. And he’ll forget all about why it’s a bad idea to let a serial killer dominate him.

He’s learning more and more every time. About himself and how much he can take. Learning new terms and experiencing new levels of pleasure. And he must say, he thoroughly enjoys breath-play. As soon as Sin places a hand around his throat, he’s hard and begging to be bent over.

He also learnt what a drop and aftercare are. Sin taught him it’s normal to feel a stinging emptiness sometimes after submitting. Sin holds him and rubs his back during his drops. It’s a weird feeling, but he bounces back fast.

Sin explained to him how enjoyment derived from pain is nothing to be ashamed of. He’s learnt that people this way are known as masochists. And many people are into pain-play and other forms revolving around it.

Izz’s never in charge of their couplings—sure he can say no, or give the safe word, or action, to let Sin know he’s been pushed beyond his comfort zone.

But ultimately, Sin is running the games. He is in charge of how they play out. He controls how harsh, how brutal, how sadistic he will be to Izz.

Sadism is another term Izz has learnt. Dom, sub, the list goes on. He never knew there was such a vast variety to sex. So many terms and levels of play. Ranging from people who get off on being cut, or burnt. To people who want to be tied up, or humiliated in public.

Sin has expressed his interest in the darker kinks. The ones involving blood and pain—on Izz’s side of the deal, inflicted by Sin. He’s spoken of his enjoyment in watching the deep reds run over Izz’s tanned skin—his bites often break skin.

Izz’s on the fence with the whole slice and dice, playing with blades, side of things. He isn’t comfortable with Sin attempting it, he’s nervous Sin will cut too deep and hit an artery or something equally unpleasant.

~~~

“Sin,” Izz groans, frustration building as the male sits over him, straddling his thighs. Refusing to touch him. And Izz can’t reach out to touch, with his hands firmly tied behind his back—a shirt torn to strips forming a makeshift rope, effectively binding him in place. Arms trapped under his body. Pinned to the male’s bunk in the Satanic cell, with Sin hovering over him fully clothed while Izz is completely bare to the room’s cold embrace.

“I’m going to try something new with you.” Sin leans down biting at Izz’s vulnerable throat. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

Izz gasps. Squirming in his bindings. “I do trust you. Please.” He is so hard he’s liable to burst open.

Sin pulls something out from behind him. At the same time gripping under Izz’s chin to push his head back. Preventing him from seeing what is happening. What Sin is holding.

Izz exhales his breath, his lungs working overtime to match his rapidly increasing heart rate. His entire body tingling with anticipation, associating Sin with pleasure—

He jumps a little at the cool touch—smooth, cold, some type of metal pressing against his skin over his ribs—

Sin takes his mouth in a surge of dominance. Kissing into him. Claiming him . . .

Izz’s mind leaves whatever object is cooling his skin, in favour of hungrily devouring Sin’s lips—

Sin bites him, a firm pressure on his lips which has him whining and arching, trying to press closer. He loves when Sin bites. The sharp licks of prickling pain amp up his desires.

A tingle in his side has him sucking in a sharp breath. The strength of the sting growing, working its way into his overwhelming lust. A small burn blooming—

Izz hisses a curse as the burn registers. The sting in his side building in intensity. Turning his head—as best he can with Sin’s hand holding his jaw—breaking the kiss.

“What . . .” Izz’s breath is too far gone to get his question out. Swallowing hard to try his luck again—

“Relax,” Sin commands. His voice level and soothing, “you’re okay. You trust me.”

He nods but still tries to look at why his side is stinging—

Sin leans a hand on the same place in his side—

A title wave of agonising pain flares to life, killing his blissed-out arousal—

Izz screams. His body jacking off the mattress as he pulls at the bindings, tears pricking in his eyes. “Red. Red. Red,” his voice laced with hurt, wheezes the safe word Sin had given him.

The pressure lets up. Sin removing his hand. The pain remains, sharp and intense. His side twisting and knotting. Angry at him for the distress it’s in.

“Untie me please. I don’t like it. I don’t—” Izz shakes his head. He’s never used the safe word before. Sin’s never pushed him this far—hurt him this much.

“Calm down,” Sin keeps Izz’s head pinned back, so he can’t see what he has done to him. The other hand coming up to stroke through his hair, “deep breaths. You’re not in any danger. Calm down.”

“I want to stop. It hurts.”

“You like it. Your mind is merely experiencing a survival reaction. You need to let yourself know you’re not in any danger. Repeat it in your mind.”

It hurt too much for him to concentrate on Sin’s words. He’s close to slipping into a panic attack. The sensations are bringing back memories of other violent attacks he’s suffered in this cage. His mind is having trouble grounding him to this moment. In this cell. With this male.

“I don’t—” Izz cuts off as Sin drops down on top of him. The male’s heavy weight encasing his entire being. . .

Izz’s hard. His erection making itself known by pushing up against Sin who smirks down at Izz. Rotating his hips to drive the point home, to show Izz how much his body is responding.

He forces himself to come back. To be in the moment with Sin. To kill the panic attack before it takes root. He silently repeats what Sin told him.

You’re not in any danger. You’re not in any danger. You’re not in any danger.

He closes his eyes. Focusing on his breathing, on the pressure rubbing over his dick. It feels good. He is fine. Sin’s not hurting him. Sin will never hurt him. Sin protects him, gives him safe words.

Sin’s your safe zone. He’s your safe place.

“There you go,” Sin praises, fingers stroking through Izz’s hair, “you see, you’re doing well.”

“It feels better.” The burning in his side is only throbbing a little now, the same kind of ache the bites Sin gives him leave behind. A bearable pain he is alright with. One he is used to. “Can you let go of my jaw now.”

“No.” Izz frowns at the response. Sin has never told him no before, especially when it comes to their intimate times together. “You’re doing well. I want your mind to stay in this zone. We don’t want you to panic again.”

“Why would I panic?” Izz can feel his heart rate spiking, he can hear his blood pumping faster.

What is Sin hiding? Why isn’t he allowed to look? What has Sin done to him?

“Repeat what I told you. You’re spiralling again,” Sin’s other hand dips past the curve of Izz’s hip, sliding down to rest on his length. Using the soft skin on skin contact to help ground Izz.

You’re not in danger. You’re not in danger .

He focuses on the touch. On the hand slowly stroking over his sensitive skin. Allowing it to wash over him. To coat his mind . . . His mind . . .

Does he truly want this? Or is he acting out of pure fear?

Fear at what will happen without protection in this Hell-hole. The other inmates have proven how foul and brutal they can be. How their humanity is all but a distant dream, a dream they don’t want to remember.

He’s been attacked, groped, forced into situations he didn’t want to be in. Treated like nothing, like a thing to be used by anyone who wants him.

But with Sin . . . He has a powerful ally, protection from the mass of the prison population, from the guards. And Sin listens to him. Treats him well. Kindly. With respect.

Except . . . What has Sin done to his side? And why isn’t Sin letting him see?

He doesn’t like it. Something is off. He’s not in this a hundred percent. His mind is racing too much, he can’t concentrate. “Red. I’m done. Let go. Please, Sin.”

Izz calls the safe word. He needs to step back. To give himself time to figure everything out. He’s come too close to a panic attack and he is still feeling off.

Sin pulls his hand free, releasing Izz’s hard cock. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Izz’s body is rolled over, and the bindings cut off. However, when he moves to get up, Sin keeps him pinned with a hand on his back. Preventing him from sitting up. From checking why his side is paining him.

“Sin—” Izz’s plea is quickly cut off, Sin speaking over him.

“Relax. I’m letting you up. I need you to stay calm. It’s not deep. It hasn’t gone through all the layers of skin. You trust me, yes.”

All the layers of skin?

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.” Izz stops trying to sit up. Allowing Sin to keep him down. He’s not so sure he wants to see anymore.

“You remember our conversation, to do with different forms of play.”

“Yes,” Izz nods along with his answer. Sin’s hand leaves him, now that he has ceased trying to get up.

He still trusts Sin. It may have hurt and been overwhelming, but Sin stopped when he asked him to. Sin respects his boundaries.

“The one mentioning knife-play.”

Knife-play . . .

Izz slowly rolls his torso, to see what was done . . . Eyes wide as his side is revealed—

And now he feels like a baby. Sure, he has a slice in his skin, just under his ribs. But it’s a nick. Barely longer than half his pinkie, and thin, paper-cut thin. He purses his lips. Probing at the slice, the tiny trickle of blood.

“That’s it. It felt like . . .” Izz punches Sin in the chest. “You’re an asshole. You freaked me out more than this would have,” he gestures to the injury, as though they aren’t both clear on what he’s talking about.

“Mind’s a powerful thing, isn’t it.” Sin laughs. Actually laughs.

Izz’s completely caught off guard by the sound, his anger evaporating. He’s never heard Sin laugh before. Not like this. Like an average amused person would do. A loud, spontaneous laugh.

He can’t help but smile at Sin. The male’s amusement rubbing off on him. He enjoys seeing this part of Sin. The playful side, the more . . . human side—with emotions. As opposed to the dangerous cold air Sin normally carries around—a shroud of death.

The frequently recurring prison bell rings out. The calling card for the next meal. Lunch is starting. Inmates noisily making their way to the cafeteria. He’s hungry too.

“I wanna shower first.” Izz swings his legs off the bunk, gathering his clothes which are scattered around the Satanic cell. “You joining?”

“Not much else to do.”

“Wow. Don’t get too excited to spend time with me.” Izz smirks, wiggling his legs into his grey pants. Is it sad that he’s already used to the scratchy material?

“You’re developing an attitude,” Sin informs Izz, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches the smaller inmate dress.

“Nah, I’m becoming comfortable with you. Enough to open up as who I’ve always been . . . Well, who I was on the outside—”

Except now I’ve killed someone.

I’m a murderer.

He’s dealing with it. Slowly coming to terms with the fact that he isn’t a bad person, he’s just been dealt a bad hand. Sin’s collection of Satanic pages on the walls has actually helped him. Who knew the Satanic culture is so easy to understand. Helpful too, it’s allowing him to process what transpired with the guard. How much it hadn’t been his fault.

Two passages he read over a week ago, he keeps close to heart, bringing them forth whenever his mind wanders into dark places. Texts he recalls clear as day in his mind’s eye. The printed words branded within his mind. A comfort to hold onto.

One’s own body is sacred, and is subject to one’s own will alone.

When in open territory, bother no others. If others bother you, politely ask them to stop. If they do not heed your words, destroy them.

Passages he finds himself repeating over and over, when he’s lying awake at night, unable to sleep.

It hasn’t left him since he read it. It’s a comforting blanket to inform him he did the right thing. He isn’t to blame for all the attacks, the assaults . . . the deaths . . .

Those inmates brought it on themselves. They suffered the consequences of their own actions. They are the ones to blame for what events transpired and the outcomes to befall them. He is the victim. They chose their own paths and sealed their own fates.

It wasn’t my fault.

“—Kind of. Can we just drop this subject? It’s depressing,” Izz brushes aside his thoughts. He is in a good head space and doesn’t want dark thoughts clouding his mind.

He may be slowly healing from his traumas, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t still holding a little guilt, feeling sad for them. They were people after all. Granted, they were bad people, but they were still someone’s son.

A hand runs down his spine as he leans forward to pick up his shoe. Bringing a smile to his face. He’s used to Sin touching him. Since the first time they did it, Sin’s always looking for excuses to get his hands all over Izz—

Izz hisses when he bends too low, his side stinging its protest. He’d forgotten about the cut—will he need stitches?

Standing in the middle of the cell—shirt in one hand—he probes the injury. It’s a neat clean cut, a thin line. A little slice with no rough jagged edges. It’s not bleeding very much anymore. Seeping a little but it seems to have closed up on its own.

How much practice has Sin had? How many have been sliced open under his blade . . . ?

Izz’s compelled to know why Sin treats him differently. Why he’s allowed to become so close to a psychopath who enjoys killing—no one kills as many as Sin without enjoying the act.

“Why do you care about me, and no one else?” Izz stares directly into Sin’s eyes, watching them flicker as the question sinks in.

“Don’t know. I just do.” Sin’s trying to dismiss the subject. Why?

Izz’s not going to allow that to happen. He wants to know what goes on in Sin’s mind. How Sin views the world. “But why am I different?”

“Do you want me to treat you like I view others,” Sin raises a brow.

A threat? Or playful teasing? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

He decides to play it safe, especially on this subject. He doesn’t want to provoke a reaction.

“No,” he mutters. Pulling his shirt on, refusing to look back at Sin once his shirt is covering him. He’s a little hurt that he hasn’t received an answer to his question.

“So what’s the problem,” Sin questions in his usual you-will-answer-me fashion.

Why is Sin pushing for an answer now? It’s clear Sin doesn’t want to talk about his thoughts or feelings.

Izz shakes his head, shrugging, “never mind.” He can already feel his emotions shutting down, to protect him from the rejection.

Sin stays silent.

Izz steps around him on his way to the cell’s door. His excitement about them showering together has evaporated. His feet heavy and his heart dropping along with the rest of him. It doesn’t feel like a sexual drop, more like an emotional hurt. It sucks either way.

Sin grabs Izz’s forearm, before the smaller inmate can squeeze past him. Sighing long and low—a curse of breath filling the tense atmosphere, “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I’ve never cared about anyone before. People . . .” Sin trails off, mulling over his words.

Izz patiently waits for Sin to continue. His breath held in his throat. Hanging onto every word.

“To me, people are simply animals, or . . . the way you would view an apple. Some you want to slice. Others look repulsive, you don’t touch them, but you would slice them open, if needed, without care.”

Izz’s not sure he’s following the explanation . . .

“You on the other hand . . . I care if you feel pain—unwanted pain. I don’t want to inflict injuries on you which you’re not comfortable with. And I don’t want to treat you as the apple, I care if you were to be sliced open, I do not want it from you. I would like you to be in one piece.”

So . . . Sin views people as unthinking unfeeling plants? Like crushing a grape—the emotions Izz would feel if he squished a grape is what Sin feels to . . . squish a person . . .

Izz can’t say he relates to the feelings. It’s strange to him, to view people—or any living creature—as nothing more than an apple, as Sin describes it. With no guilt over a human’s death . . .

It would actually be kind of nice to hold no guilt. He’d be able to sleep a full night without nightmares of dead people plaguing him. Without seeing the guard on the floor . . . All the blood . . .

Izz blinks the images away. Shoving them into the back of his mind. He isn’t sure how to respond to Sin. So he nods, taking Sin’s hand to lead the dangerous male out of the Satanic cell to the shower room.

He may not understand why Sin views life as meaningless, but he does understand one thing. Sin holds him above everyone else. As a prized possession to be taken care of. Protected.

They walk side by side down the corridors to the showers. With every inmate—who is unlucky enough to be stuck in the same corridor—turning and swiftly retreating back the way they came.

Izz finds it amusing how everyone avoids Sin. And here he is, clinging to the male’s side. Letting Sin fuck him—

No, begging Sin to fuck him.

I truly am insane.