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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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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Saturday January 13th 1990 (10.01 p.m.)
After Booker’s visit, Tom spent the rest of his Saturday walking around in a happiness-fueled daze. He pushed all thoughts of his betrayal from his mind and concentrated on the invigorating knowledge that his and Dennis’ relationship was once again on track. They had spent the entire forty-five minutes talking non-stop about their future together and Booker had even intimated that closer to Tom’s release date, he would start looking for a larger apartment. Everything Tom had hoped for was finally coming true and he had a strong gut feeling that despite his relationship with Mosco, he would get the fairytale ending to what had been a harrowing few years. The next fifteen and a half months of incarceration did not seem as daunting as it had prior to Booker’s visit and he truly believed he would walk out the prison gates free from the burden of his past, but without losing sight of his guilt. Penhall’s death would always haunt him and the knowledge that his dereliction of duty was the cause of his best friend's death had not been an easy admission to accept. However, with a sober mind, he was finally taking responsibility for his actions and knowing that he once again had a supportive partner by his side, he was, for the first time in years, confident about his future. It had been one fucked up roller coaster ride, but in the not too far off distance, he saw a smooth, flat highway leading to his and Booker’s Shangri-La and he felt sure that they would spend the rest of their lives together on a journey of discovery.
Therefore, the hours until lockdown had passed in a blur of daydreams and thoughts of a future that no longer seemed unattainable. But when the lights dimmed, plunging the cell into a shadowy darkness, he suddenly remembered Mosco’s early morning promise to fuck him so hard, he’d be beggin’ for more and a feeling of shame washed over him. He was eagerly planning a future with Booker whilst allowing another man to fuck him and no matter how hard he tried to justify his reasons to himself, he still felt like a cheating bastard. For a fraction of a second, he considered telling Mosco that their relationship was over, but he knew it would be suicide. Without the Latino’s protection, he would become an easy target for every other sick, domineering pervert in D Block and the thought of daily rapes by dozens of different men terrified him. What he had with Mosco was consensual and even though he had not initially sought out the attentions of el Jefe, he did feel a certain attraction towards the handsome man. However, he was astute enough to know the foundation of their relationship was built purely on Mosco’s arrogant desire to dominate and his desperate need to feel loved, as well as the basic human condition to survive in a place where the inhabitants preyed upon the vulnerable. But what he did not realize was the unhealthy level of Mosco’s jealousy and possessiveness that bordered on insanity. Unbeknownst to him, he was a prize, a beautiful trophy to show off and his willingness to submit only helped to secure the Latino’s ranking as Jefe. He was nothing more than a pawn in Mosco’s twisted game of power and to wrong him would mean certain physical torture, or, at the very worst, death.
So when he finished his nightly ablutions and crawled into his narrow bunk, he fully expected Mosco to join him, and as the minutes slipped interminably by, he lay rigid in his bed, waiting for the telltale squeak of the springs that indicated Mosco was on the move. But as the familiar terrified cries chorused throughout the Block, he heard a soft snoring from above and relaxing against his lumpy mattress, he exhaled the breath he had been holding. For the first time in weeks, he was free to fall asleep without the deep throbbing pain inside his anus reminding him of his betrayal. Mosco had a voracious sexual appetite and it was not unusual for him to seek gratification several times a day, so for Tom to have a peaceful night to himself was ecstasy in an environment where privacy was virtually non-existent. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the haunting pleas of the unfortunate and dreamed about his new life with Booker. His luck was finally changing and life was once again, good.
**
Monday January 15th 1990 (2.15 a.m.)
When impatient hands yanked down Tom’s blanket, exposing his bare skin to the cool morning air, he let out a groan of annoyance and in a sleep induced fugue-like state, he clumsily attempted to cover himself. “Aw c’mon Mosco," he mumbled sleepily, "it’s the middle of the night. Can’t you wait till morning?”
A stinging slap to his face quickly brought him back to full consciousness and sitting up, he threw his cellie a wounded look. “What the hell?”
A hint of a grin played over Mosco’s lips, but his eyes remained cold. “Time for some lovin’, Tommy.”
The tone in Mosco’s voice when he spoke his name sent a shiver of foreboding down Tom’s spine and the hairs on his arms stood to attention. Even in his half-awake state, he had the distinct impression that he had somehow managed to piss off his cellmate, but he had no idea what he had done. Everything had appeared fine when they had gone to bed on Saturday night, the only difference had been Mosco’s sudden disinterest in sex. Sunday had been a normal day spent playing cards and socializing with the other inmates and he had not noticed any difference in the Latino’s attitude towards him. But now, in the early hours of Monday morning, his cellmate’s enthusiasm for sex had obviously returned because he was erect and ready to go, but this time, there was a hint of malice in his voice, signaling that he was not happy. Something had happened, but Tom was clueless, he was so caught up in his own happiness he did not suspect that Mosco was harboring a deep-seated jealousy over his rekindled relationship with Booker. If he had, the slight concern he felt in his gut would have turned into full-blown panic.
“Nuh-uh,” Mosco sneered when Tom sat on the edge of the bed in readiness to take the erect appendage into his mouth. “Get up, drop your shorts and bend over the basin, I wanna fuck you.”
The last thing Tom wanted was penetrative sex with Mosco. Now that he and Booker had repaired their relationship, he wanted to save himself for the man he loved. However, he realized his choices were limited. Refusal was not an option, all he could do was submit and hope that Mosco was not too brutal. But the undertone of cruelty in the Latino’s voice suggested the sex would be painful and demeaning and he remained sitting on the bed, his muscles frozen in fear.
“What are you waiting for Chico?” Mosco murmured in a teasing voice. “Do you want me to wine and dine you first? Sorry, I ain’t that kinda guy… now get to your fucking feet and bare that pretty ass. You don’t want me askin’ you again.”
The thinly veiled threat was not lost on Tom and rising unsteadily to his feet, he flashed Mosco what he hoped was a beguiling smile. He knew his cellmate was angry and if he were to spare himself a painful and humiliating fucking, he needed to stroke Mosco’s ego and play the part of subservient lover. “Do you want me to suck you first,” he asked in a soft voice, his dark eyes peering up seductively through his long, thick lashes.
But Mosco was nobody’s fool and his green eyes narrowed into slits. “No jodas conmigo, (Don’t fuck with me,)” he whispered in a low, menacing voice. “Nadie traiciona al Jefe… nadie. (Nobody betrays the boss… nobody.)”
Tom had no idea what the words meant but the intonation was unmistakable. He was in deep shit and he would have to swallow his fear and face his punishment like a man.
He had no choice… he was in for a savage fucking and there was no escape.
**
Monday January 15th 1990 (4.39 a.m.)
Gentle fingers brushed Tom’s sleep-tousled hair from his eyes before lightly trailing down his smooth cheek. The sudden contact yanked him from a troubled sleep and his eyes flew open as he instinctively shrank away from the touch. When he saw his cellmate sitting next to him, his dark eyes filled with fear. "Please Mosco, not again,” he whispered, his voice rising in panic. “I’m sore and I need time to—”
“No, no,” Mosco crooned softly and standing up, he held out his hand. “Stand up mi chico precioso (my precious boy), I’ve got a special surprise for you.”
Although wary, Tom knew better than to refuse and grasping Mosco’s outstretched hand, he rose unsteadily to his feet. His backside throbbed painfully and when he realized he had been bleeding, the dried blood staining the back of his boxers and adhering the material to his skin, his face flushed with embarrassment. In the space of only a few hours his world had come smashing down around him and he only had himself to blame. He had allowed himself to celebrate life in a place where life did not exist and his mind had flown to the dizzying heights of elation, only to crash back to earth with a resounding thud when Mosco reminded him what he really was… a worthless whore. The Latino had brutally taken what he wanted without the aid of lubrication and Tom now bore the scars. As the pain had ripped through his body, memories of his rape months before had flooded his mind and he was thankful he did not have to endure the panic that he would suffocate within the lumpy folds of his mattress. At least when he was standing up, he could breathe and as his jagged breath caught in his throat, he had wondered why Mosco’s attitude towards him had suddenly changed. Although his cellmate had never been a gentle lover, he had never caused him unnecessary pain before and the confusion in his mind had only added to his misery.
Staring down at the gray cement floor, he struggled to keep the tears from his eyes. “Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered, “I’ll do anything you want but I can’t do that again, I just—”
“Shh,” Mosco murmured and pressing a finger against Tom’s lips, he gave him a tender smile. “I’m sorry I hurt you, I was having a really bad day.”
The Latino’s words did little to alleviate Tom’s fears, but when gentle fingers stroked his cock, his body instantly reacted to the caress; he wanted to feel pleasure instead of the pain burning inside of him. “Mmm, you like that don’t you mi hermoso tesoro (my beautiful treasure), do you want Papá to make it all better?”
Unable to resist the thrilling sensation of the tender caress, Tom closed his eyes and gave into the titillation. “Ohhh,” he breathed as his boxers slipped to the floor exposing his cock to the cool morning air. Seconds later, Mosco dropped to his knees and he felt warm breath whispering over the sensitive tip of his cockhead, the erotic sensation eliciting a low groan from between his lips. “Kiss it Mosco,” he breathed softly, his legs trembling in excited anticipation. “Please kiss it.”
Mosco’s stomach knotted in fury at the audacity of Tom’s request. No one told el Jefe what to do, let alone a worthless whore like Tom Hanson. But to execute his plan, he needed to swallow his pride and resist the urge to bite down on the erect cock hovering in front of his face. So without further hesitation, he took a deep breath and ignoring the anger boiling inside him, he gently wrapped his fingers around the base of Tom’s cock and lightly brushed his lips over the tip.
“Yesss,” Tom moaned, his fingers gently tugging at Mosco’s hair. “Again Mosco, again.”
A sinister grin marred Mosco's beautiful face and he once again pressed his lips against the tip before stopping to suck tenderly on the smooth cockhead, his moist tongue swirling around the hard coronal ridge. As Tom’s hips gently rocked forward, he parted his lips and taking him into his mouth, he concentrated on giving the best blowjob he knew how. Soft mews sounded from above and opening his throat, he permitted his toy to fuck his mouth. He had given Tom blowjobs before, but never had he allowed him to take control and the disrespectful behavior had him churning inside. But it was the only way to exact his revenge and he was prepared to stomach the humiliation just to put Tom back in his place.
The exquisite sensation of warm lips wrapped around his cock had Tom lost in the pleasure of the oral stimulation. But as he pumped his cock in and out of Mosco’s hot mouth, a bright flash suddenly impaired his vision and he instinctively shielded his eyes. "What the fuck?!" he exclaimed and squinting his eyes, he pushed Mosco away and stared blindly at the bars of the cell where the light had emanated from. His heart hammered fearfully in his chest and when a loud whine cut through the silence, he recognized the sound of a camera flash warming up. "WHO THE HELL'S OUT THERE?" he yelled, his panic intensifying with every passing second. When the camera flashed again, his hands flew to his groin, covering his erection, but he knew it was too late, the photographer had caught him naked and erect for a second time.
A hand touched his shoulder and yelping in surprise, he spun around. Mosco’s face was a mask of fury and stepping forward, he shielded Tom’s naked body from the prying lens. “BASTARDO!” he screamed. “Get the fuck out of here!”
Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, the sound slowly fading as the voyeur disappeared. Tom passed a shaky hand over his mouth and pulling up his boxers, he pressed his lips against Mosco’s ear. “Who was that?” he whispered, his voice trembling from the shock of the unexpected encounter.
Mosco turned around and placed a comforting arm around Tom’s shoulders. “One of the hacks likes to take happy snaps for his own perverted pleasure,” he answered in a strained voice. “We haven’t figured out who it is, but when we do—”
“Jesus,” Tom muttered, the pleasure of the oral stimulation now a distant memory. “How long has this been going on?”
Walking over to the hand basin, Mosco turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over his face. “For as long as I’ve been here,” he replied solemnly. “It happens to all of us at some time or another.”
Tom lay down on his bunk and pulled the covers protectively over his quivering body. “Shouldn’t we tell the Warden?”
Climbing onto his bunk, Mosco stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. “Yeah, ‘cause he really cares what happens to us presos (prisoners),” he snorted. “Forget about it Hanson, it’s just part of life on the Block.”
When Tom did not answer, Mosco suppressed a laugh. He considered himself worthy of an Oscar, his performance had been outstanding and Tom did not suspect a thing. Bribing Officer Howell to take the incriminating photos had been a piece of cake and it would not be long before he once again, exclusively owned his beautiful whore.
**
Wednesday January 17th 1990 (7.08 p.m.)
With a weary sigh, Booker flopped down onto the couch. Picking up the remote, he flicked on the TV and began to open his mail. He tossed the electric bill onto the coffee table with barely a glance, along with an invitation to a work colleague’s house warming party. Picking up the final plain brown envelope, he noticed it had no return address and turning it over in his hand, he did not recognize the untidy scrawl. With his curiosity now piqued, he ripped it open and two Polaroids tumbled into his lap.
It took a moment for his mind to register what his eyes were seeing and when the heartbreaking reality finally filtered through, he let out a strangled cry. Jumping to his feet, the photographs fell to the floor, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not tear his gaze from the offensive image of an unknown man’s lips wrapped around Tom’s cock, the rapturous expression on his lover’s face forever captured in time. His eyes flitted to the second photo, this one a full frontal of Tom’s naked body, his erection jutting proudly outward and his face partly covered by his hand. The unknown man stood behind him, his lip curled into a satisfied smirk and his handsome face relaxed despite the unexpected interruption.
Hot bile rose in Booker’s throat and stumbling into the bathroom, he only just made it to the toilet before throwing up into the bowl. Once again, Tom had played him for a fool, betraying him in the cruelest of ways with a man who was guilty of God only knew what heinous crime and as he spewed up the contents of his last meal, he knew that this time there would be no forgiveness. It was over and as far as he was concerned, Tom Hanson could burn in hell.
**
Saturday January 20th 1990 (9.39 a.m.)
With the memory of the photographic attack still fresh in his mind, Tom spent the rest of the week more on edge than usual. He studied each guard’s face, desperately trying to figure out which hack was perverted enough to commit such an act of voyeuristic treachery. But none of the officers showed any sign that they were the perpetrator and eventually, he came to the unsatisfying conclusion that he might just go to his grave never knowing who the guilty party was.
When Saturday finally came around, his mood lifted. Booker had promised to visit him every week and he could not wait to feel his lover’s arms wrapped around him, absorbing the stress from his body with their strong, protective warmth.
He lined up with the other prisoners lucky enough to have a visitor and waited patiently for a guard to escort them to the visitors’ room. But when Officer Ryan Howell approached, he grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him from the line. “Back to the rec room Hanson, your name’s not on the list.”
Tom stared back in surprise. "What do you mean I'm not on the list? Dennis promised me he'd visit."
Howell smirked and holding his hand up to his face, he mimed taking a photo. "Click, click. I guess he didn't like the pictures I sent him."
The color drained from Tom’s face and he stared at the guard in disbelief. "It was you?” he asked incredulously, the pitch of his voice rising as his anger intensified. “Why?! Why would you do that?! Why would you send him those photos?!"
"I was bored,” Howell smirked, his eyes flashing with amusement, “and I figured he'd want to know that his boyfriend's a whore."
A hot, blind rage consumed Tom’s mind and any sense of self-preservation he had left was instantly consumed in the embers. All he could think about was exacting revenge on the man who had ruined his life and charging forward, he launched himself at Howell and tackled him to the ground. “You sonofabitch!” he screamed hysterically, his fists raining vicious blows on the guard’s soft body. "I'll fucking kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!"
A chorus of excited yells added to the confusion, the inmates’ chants growing steadily louder. “Woo Hanson… Give it to ‘im Tommy, fuck that motherfucker UP… TOM-MY! TOM-MY! TOM-MY!"
Moments later, a sharp pain exploded in Tom’s kidneys and he crumpled to the floor. But the adrenalin coursing through his body masked his pain and scrambling to his feet, he turned and faced his baton-wielding attacker. “C’mon Hanley,” he taunted in a low voice, his fingers beckoning at the frightened guard. “Let’s see what you’ve got you sonofa—”
But he did not get the chance to finish his sentence. Two burley hacks knocked him to the floor, easily restraining him with brutal blows to his head and torso. Ignoring Hanley’s offer of help, Howell clambered to his feet and ramming his hat back on his head, he straightened up to his full height and attempted to reclaim his dignity in front of both the inmates and his peers. “TAKE HIM TO THE HOLE!” he yelled and he watched with growing pleasure as his co-workers dragged Tom's bloody body kicking and screaming to the place the inmates referred to as hell on earth… solitary confinement.
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Chasing a Butterfly