Here’s me wasting time by writing about writing in real time.

Last week on “Wasting my writing time writing about writing”, I thought maybe I would do the sex scene next and that’s exactly what I did. I find it’s a great exercise for building character. You get to see the people at their most vulnerable and you can learn a lot about a person by considering their sexual backstory.

For example, while I haven’t gotten into Bur’s POV yet, I know he’s an accidentally emotional guy. The scene is in prison, Bur is called Bruiser and he’s going to make Ricky his bitch. I always knew the scene would end up consensual — rape for titillation is not a thing I will ever intentionally write, though I will admit to writing close enough to stumble and backpedal — but I expected the consent to come from the POV character later than it did. Ricky was resigned to the act and because of this Bur sort of… got good. My bad-boy mobster revealed very quickly that he was going to operate more tenderly than I expected and not go through with the entire scene (which disappointed me). It started happening when I started writing ‘he was supposed to’, because literally that’s what I thought the guy would be doing, but he wanted something different, I guess.

What follows is raw L.J. Wrote this in about an hour this afternoon so it will have stupid sentences, [notes], misspellings and monstrous grammar.  The line I like best which I will almost certainly cut is “Ricky considered dropping a comment about how his dick looked like a cucumber tied-up with shoe-laces, carved into the shape of a rocket, and painted red.”  Don’t judge me too harshly, friends. I’m recording a work in progress.

Excerpt:

     A hand gripped Ricky’s neck. The man’s weight was on his body, crushing him. Bruiser’s other hand sunk around his face and Ricky shouted into a closed fist.

Bruiser’s grip tightened. “Make another noise. I dare you.”

Ricky kept still. This was inevitable, fighting was pointless. Better to be on the man’s safe side.

Bruiser gripped his ass. “This doesn’t belong to you anymore, does it?”

Ricky’s muscles clenched automatically as if to deny the statement, but Ricky said, “No.”

Bruiser slapped his head, and the impact made Ricky’s brain swim for a dazed moment. “Did you need to make a noise to agree with me, Tic-Tac?”

Ricky shook his head no.

Bruiser stroked his head like a dog. “Good boy.”

Ricky broke out in a cold sweat. The first time would be the worst, and even that wouldn’t be anything like the boys in the shower. They had sent him to the infirmary. The nurse had talked about AIDS and justice, but he’d kept his mouth shut because that was how it was supposed to be. Naw, Bruiser would hurt, but he would be…bearable.

“You understand this deal, Tic-Tac, right?” Bruiser spoke into his neck, his lips close to touching skin, his breath slightly minty. He’d been eating Ricky’s candy. “I fuck you, and no one else touches you without my say-so. Yeah?”

Ricky nodded.

“So, do your job right, and I’ll go easy on you.” His voice was almost gentle, reminded Ricky of sun-drenched beaches and made him shiver a little.

Then the hand crushed harder. “You understand, bitch?”

Ricky nodded again, felt a hot hate in his gut. He liked the weight on top of him, the heat and solidness of a well-muscled body, the way hips ground into his ass, but he hated everything else about the man.

“Start by sucking my cock.”

Bruiser backed off, rising off the bunk. Ricky’s instinct was to stay still and small, but he knew better. He sat up sharply and tilted his head up, looking at the wall behind Bruiser as the Italian peeled down the hem of his loose orange and white striped pants. Just far enough to let his dick spring out.

And it did spring. The man was rock hard, thick, and veiny. Great looking tool; Ricky wished he’d gotten the chance to play with it anywhere except here. Maybe in the backroom at some New York gay club. Or a truck stop in the Midwest. This was business now. It was going to be violent, but at least it would be over quickly.

Ricky looked at Bruiser’s erection then his face. The [unimpressed expression] was the only resistance he was going to give. Just enough to let this fucker know he wasn’t scared. Ricky considered dropping a comment about how his dick looked like a cucumber tied-up with shoe-laces, carved into the shape of a rocket, and painted red. But the man’s face was as stone hard as his cock, his fists were clenched, and that’s not how this transaction worked.

Better to do the job right.

Without ceremony or hesitation, Ricky obediently sucked his cock. He tried not to finesse, not to show that he knew his way around another man’s dick. Just in and out, lips tight, teeth out of the way.

But he knew immediately something was different about Bruiser. He didn’t pump his cock forward or hold Ricky’s head. He didn’t tease or threaten. He draped his big hand in Ricky’s hair, an undemanding pressure.

Ricky tilted his gaze up the man’s solid body and accidentally met his eyes. It was the first time since he’d been in the prison that he’d actually looked someone directly in their face and the intimacy startled him. Bruiser wasn’t supposed to be watching a guy suck him. He was supposed to close his eyes, tip his head back, and fuck Ricky’s mouth.

Then again, Ricky wasn’t supposed to try to see if the man was enjoying it either. It was supposed to be about power, about being demeaned and taking it well.

But Ricky didn’t look away, and neither did Bruiser. The Italian’s eyes were gorgeous, so intense, so surprised. As if he’d been caught doing something scandalous. Ricky felt his cock throb against his tongue.

Understanding he was making a mistake, taking needless risks, being stupid, Ricky swirled his tongue around the shaft, savoring the cock not just servicing it. Licked the cock slipping out of his mouth, lapped at the head, slowly took it all again and fearlessly watched Bruiser’s face.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Bruiser muttered and finally tipped his head back and sank his hips forward. His cock twitched, and Ricky chased it giving into the pleasure of sucking another man’s cock.

His own had hardened. The realization made the rest of his stiffen with fear. What punishment was there for enjoying sex in prison? How badly was Bruiser going to beat him if he noticed?

Well, he wasn’t going to notice. Ricky kept his hands on his own knees and resisted the urge to touch himself or God-forbid the Italian God fucking his face. Even that was unfair- Bruiser didn’t have enough force. There wasn’t the right violence to this.

Bruiser was gentler than anyone in the back of the gay clubs or truck stops had ever been.

The only violence from the man came when he suddenly pushed Ricky back. Forcefully enough that Ricky ended up on his back looking at Bruiser from between his own half-raised legs.

The man stared down at him a moment, trying to compose himself, looking furious and ashamed and desperate. Stopping his orgasm, Ricky realized.

“Take off your pants, Tic-tac.” He said the nickname without confidence or conviction. He wanted to say Ricky’s real name, but he didn’t know it. Or more likely, he didn’t dare say it.

Ricky had hoped ‘going easy’ meant ‘no anal,’ but he wasn’t in a position to complain. If he didn’t obey, if Bruiser had to force his pants off, he’d certainly notice he wasn’t the only stiff cock in the cell.

Against every survival instinct in his body, Ricky stood and turned his back on Bruiser. He pushed down his pants and bent over before his cellmate told him too.

He was shocked by the hand that grazed over his cheeks. First by the pain. His hole was still raw from the boys in the showers. Second, by the softness of it. Not that Bruiser’s hands were soft. His skin was dry and calloused, but the pressure was gentle.

“They fucked you pretty bad, didn’t they?” Bruiser’s tone was anything but tough. That was a voice that belonged anywhere except this dim hellhole, a man who could be kind, maybe even trusted.

Ricky did not answer. Bruiser didn’t want him to talk earlier.

“Guess I want somethin’ different after all.” Then, after a little squeeze, Bruiser’s hand was gone.

The other man collapsed on his own bunk and Ricky glanced over his shoulder. Bruiser sprawled on the narrow mattress, leaning on the wall, dick in his hand. That was an image that was going to haunt him [bring this image up later in the present day].

Ricky dared to pull his pants back up and straighten. He stared forward at the wall, listening to the sounds of the man stroking his own cock. His mouth was dry with want, his cock throbbed, and his asshole twitched anticipating the hard fuck that wasn’t coming.

When Bruiser didn’t respond to him, Ricky glanced over his shoulder again. The man was still staring at him, beating his cock. Ricky pressed his mouth tightly closed to control his expression, though he wasn’t sure how he felt. Not really. By all rights that thing should have been ripping into his ass, reopening his injuries, making him a mewling bitch. And maybe he wanted that. But maybe it was just that he expected it.

That was the deal, wasn’t it? That’s the way it was supposed to go.

Except that nothing about this was going the way it was supposed to.

Bruiser’s eyes were closed, so he didn’t notice when Ricky knelt by the bed. He jolted and pushed away when Ricky tried to take the tip of his cock back into his mouth.

“The fuck are you doing?” Bruiser looked scared and angry.

Ricky answered with ice in his voice. “My job.”

Something in that answer calmed Bruiser, and his scowl relaxed. “Right.”

Bruiser offered his cock. Ricky took it.