Page 21 of Butterfly

His eyes stung, his nose ran, and it was his father’s voice he heard in his head, telling him to shut up. Shut up, or he’d keep hitting Ollie. Shut up, or he’d start on Leo too.

Shut up, that’s all he had to do for it to be over quickly.

He was suddenly eleven years old, scared out of his mind when he realised what was about to happen.

Ollie didn’t try to call for help again.

He didn’t try to get away either.

He was there again, back with his father.

“That’s better,” the inmate told him, stroking his hair. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to suck my cock for a bit, and when I’m bored of that, I’m going to bend you over my bed and rail you from behind. Got it?”

“Yes,” Ollie said immediately.

He knew what happened when he refused to answer his father.

He got hit again, harder.

His voice shook, and his stomach cramped, but he knew he had to hold it in. His father always punished him more when he spluttered up bile during a beating. Ollie swallowed the sick creeping up his throat.

“Good.”

Ollie shut his eyes.

“No.”

He snapped them open again when the inmate pinched his cheek hard enough to bruise.

“I want those big brown eyes on me while I make you choke. No looking away, understand?”

“I understand.”

“Why the fuck can’t you be on B-wing?” The inmate pulled Ollie’s hair. “We could do this every day. Wouldn’t you love that?”

A tear rushed over Ollie’s stinging cheek. He’d learned something else from his father too, only answer questions in the way his tormentor wanted them to be answered.

Lie to spare yourself the worst of the pain.

He’d given the advice to Leo too, never thinking he’d need it, but just in case.

“Yes.” Ollie trembled. “I’d love that.”

The inmate groaned. Taking his cock in hand, he smeared it against Ollie’s cheek, but Ollie turned his head, keeping it from touching his lips.

“Hey!” the inmate snapped, tightening his hold on Ollie’s hair. “Suck it, you little slut—”

“What the hell are you doing?” Pichard’s furious bark brought proceedings to a stop.

“What does it look like?” the inmate asked over his shoulder, nonchalant.

Pichard rushed forward, shoving him aside.

“Assistance,” he yelled. His loud voice carried; it spoke of authority and anger. “I need some assistance!”

“He offered,” the inmate protested. “He wanted to. If anyone should be thrown in Seg, it’s him for teasing me like that.”

“Teasing you?” Pichard hissed. He stood in front of Ollie, hiding him. “He’s petrified!”

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