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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4657 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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After the attack, Jorge had obediently taken himself back to the pool house, the memory of Booker’s kiss lingering on his lips. The fifteen-hundred square foot building was his home, and he spent each and every day locked within its walls until summoned by Holland to perform sexual favors or menial chores. Since agreeing to work for Ingram three years ago, the isolation had dramatically changed his personality, and he no longer spent time with his family or friends. He was an outcast, and Holland and his associates were his only company. His daily life consisted of brutal sex games and sadistic punishments, but after so many years trapped in a cycle of abuse, his mind had adjusted, and he no longer felt the need to escape the barbarous situation he found himself living in. He was a product of his environment, a willing participant, and therefore, he felt little emotion when witnessing the evil that took place behind the walls of Casa de Holland. It was all part of the mogul’s clever indoctrination into the world of sex, rape, and murder. Through years of systematic abuse, he was now immune to the violence. He was a silent observer, and rightly or wrongly, he had learned very quickly that self-preservation was his number-one priority.
However, all that had changed when Booker arrived. Because of his isolation, Jorge was now wary of people his own age, but Booker had been an exception, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to the charismatic young officer. Of course, he had only observed him from a distance; Holland had cunningly kept them apart until the evening of the dinner party. Witnessing two strangers copulate was all part of the thrill for the members of the Shadow Society, and Jorge had lost count of the number of erotic encounters he had participated in with the young men Holland lured to the house. At the age of nineteen, he was sexually experienced beyond his years, and he knew how to please a man. He had never been with a woman, and although curious, he did not feel any attraction toward the female maids in Holland’s employ. Whether by intervention or design, he considered himself homosexual, and in his opinion, Dennis was the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on; he was his fantasy come true.
Yawning loudly, Jorge forewent the healing properties of a long, hot shower, opting instead for the comfort of his bed. As he drifted off to sleep, visions of Booker flooded his mind. Being blessed with a beautiful face was not always a godsend, and he hoped the dark-haired Adonis would not meet an untimely death at the hands of his master; unlike the many men before him.
**
Holland raised a hand as the last car exited his property, and walking back into the house, he closed the front door and punched the alarm’s security code into the keypad on the wall. The buzz of adrenaline he felt after the excitement of the night’s events was slowly fading, and his home now seemed empty and cold. But there was still one piece of business to take care of before he retired for the evening, and with a sigh, he walked back into the dining room and stopped beside the naked form sprawled on the floor.
Light from the crystal chandelier shone down on Booker’s face, illuminating the paleness of his skin. Although on the floor, the relaxed position of his body could have fooled a casual observer into believing he was sleeping peacefully. With his head resting on his left arm, he lay half on his stomach half on his side, his right leg bent at the knee. Only the semen coating his thighs and the blood seeping into the intricately woven ornate rug beneath his head revealed the true nature of the crime, the fleur-de-lis pattern forever tainted by the violence that had occurred just minutes before.
A moue of disdain puckered Holland’s lips, and without showing any regard for Booker’s condition, he prodded him with the toe of his eight-hundred-dollar Armani shoe. When the officer’s eyes remained closed, he squatted down and gave him a sharp poke in the ribs. “Wakey, wakey, Denny-boy,” he growled. “You’re bleeding all over my two-thousand-dollar rug.”
Although still unconscious, Booker’s mind registered the jab, and slowly rising from the darkness, his eyelids fluttered ever so slightly and a low moan rumbled in his throat. Not known for his patience, Holland decided on a more proactive approach, and reaching down, he grasped Booker’s flaccid penis in his hand and squeezed.
Heat flared throughout the officer’s body, the pain releasing him from the fog blanketing his mind. His eyes flew open, a look of fear reflecting from his dark irises, and as he fought against his paralysis, he struggled to find his voice. “Whaaa…”
Amusement twisted Holland’s lips into a cruel sneer. “I should have known touching your cock would wake you up,” he taunted. “You really are a whore, aren’t you?”
Confused by the statement, Booker attempted to clear his addled mind. Slowly, the memory of his participation in a wanton foursome with Holland, Jorge, and Beasley resurfaced, bringing forth tears of shame, and pushing himself up to a sitting position, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, shit.”
The moan of regret was muffled against Booker’s palms, but Holland easily interpreted the sentiment behind the sound and snorting with a fiendish delight, he stood up and cast a withering look at the officer’s bowed head. “Get up you sniveling whore. Lupita needs to clean up your mess.”
With his self-esteem at an all-time low, Booker longed to crawl into bed and put the horrors of the day behind him. He staggered to his feet, but the dull pain thumping behind his left eye caused him to sway unsteadily, and he grabbed the back of the nearest chair for support.
“HANDS!” Holland yelled, and jerking forward, he grabbed Booker’s wrist and roughly yanked his hand away. Shocked by the reaction, the young officer groggily stared at his fingers, and he was surprised to see blood covering his shaking digits. A spasm of nausea churned through his stomach, bringing the contents of his last meal into his throat. He managed to swallow down the vomit, but perspiration prickled his upper lip, and his body shuddered as he fought to control the queasiness.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes squinting against the harshness of the overhead light. “I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Holland interrupted in a cold voice. “You broke the rules tonight, boy, and for that, you can sleep in the oubliette.”
Although well educated, Booker had no idea what oubliette meant, and he stared blankly at Holland for several seconds before slowly repeating the word. “The oub-li-ette?”
“That’s right, you ignorant ass, the oubliette. It’s an underground room I had installed especially for disobedient whores like you. Maybe spending an uncomfortable night sleeping on a cold stone floor will help you repent of your sins.”
Despite feeling increasingly unwell, Booker tried desperately to comprehend the meaning of Holland’s words. “Sins?” he echoed in a shaky voice. “What sins?”
Without warning, Holland stepped forward and screamed directly into the young officer's bewildered face. “YOU KISSED HIM, YOU STUPID PRICK! NOBODY KISSES HIM EXCEPT ME! GOT IT?”
Booker instinctively shrank away, but the force of Holland’s words continued to ring painfully in his aching head and protecting his ears with his hands, he started to moan. “Oh, God.”
Annoyance registered in Holland’s eyes, and grabbing Booker by the wrist, he dragged him across the room. “God won’t help you, you stupid bitch,” he snarled. “In his eyes, you’re nothing but a filthy slut.”
With the deleterious effects of his concussion becoming more apparent with each passing minute, Booker was incapable of fighting back. His vision blurred, and as he struggled to remain upright, he watched through narrowed eyes as Holland pulled back a rug by the window, revealing a hidden trapdoor built into the floorboards. The mogul grabbed the metal handle, and yanking open the hatch, he motioned toward the gaping hole in the floor. “Get in.”
Booker stared down into the inky blackness of the dungeon, and tottering unsteadily on his feet, he staggered backward. “I can’t,” he groaned, “I’ll fall.”
“I SAID... GET... IN!” Holland yelled, and grabbing Booker by the shoulders, he forcefully shoved him down the narrow steps.”
The cry of surprise that spilled from Booker’s lips quickly transformed into a terrified scream as he tumbled head first down the staircase. He had no time to break his fall, and he hit the cement floor with a loud oomph, the impact twisting his body as pain flared in his left shoulder.
“Sleep tight,” Holland laughed, and without further commentary, he slammed the hatch closed, plunging the small room into darkness.
Rolling onto his back, Booker exhaled a loud groan of pain. He stared up into the blackness, inhaling deeply in a desperate attempt to control the rising nausea that threatened to swamp him. Eventually, his heart rate slowed, and with a grunt, he pushed himself into a sitting position. A narrow beam of light shone through a small barred window, and after giving his eyes time to adjust to the dimness, he took in his surroundings.
The cell measured approximately twelve feet square, its walls and floor constructed out of uneven slabs of stone, the tapered window situated just below the ceiling the only other feature in the dank room. However, escape was not an option; even if he managed to dislodge the bars, the window was far too small for him to crawl through without becoming stuck. Once he realized he was trapped, the debilitating onset of claustrophobia stifled him, painfully compressing his lungs. Raw panic paralyzed his limbs; he could not move, could not think, could not breathe. He was as helpless as a fish out of water, his mouth gaping uselessly as he struggled to draw in a much-needed breath. But just as he felt himself fading, his survival instincts kicked in, and he gasped loudly. Oxygen flooded his air-starved body, reviving his muscles and brain, and dropping to his hands and knees, he continued to pull the life-giving gas into his lungs. Several long minutes passed before he felt stable enough to stagger to his feet, and using the wall as support, he pulled himself upright. He immediately wrapped his stiff fingers around the cold iron bars and stared out of the arrow slit window. Wispy clouds shadowed the light cast by the waning gibbous moon, and breathing in the cool night air, his dark, sorrowful eyes stared up at the faintly illuminated celestial body. “Tommy,” he choked, a warm trail of tears streaming freely down his pale cheeks. “I’m doing it for you, baby. I’m doing it all for you.”
**
Tom stood at his bedroom window, his dark eyes focused on the hazy outline of the rising moon. Without warning, a full-length shudder vibrated through his body, raising thousands of goosebumps over his naked flesh, and closing his eyes, he pictured Booker’s face in his mind. Although it seemed impossible given their rocky relationship, the dark-haired officer was constantly on his mind, and for the hundredth time that day, he wondered why his friend hadn’t told him he was taking leave. While it explained Booker’s absence over the past three days, it did not help alleviate Tom’s feelings of abandonment, and he wished his friend would pick up the phone and call him, just so he could hear his voice.
After several minutes, he opened his eyes and turning away from the window, he climbed into bed, and pulling the covers under his chin, he stared gloomily up at the ceiling. He missed Booker more than he would have ever thought possible, and exhaling a wistful sigh, he wondered if the young officer missed him too.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness