34
Izz’s naked under the shower spray all by his little lonesome. Sin’s still in the separate area where you leave your clothing when you enter the massive communal shower room—a word one would think doesn’t belong in front of showers. Private or singular shower stalls would be a million times better. Less nasty, less horrifying, less leering creeps watching you.
He doesn’t have to worry about the last part, not this time. The entire shower room is empty. There had been one inmate about to get naked and come in, Sin’s narrowed eyes in their direction had them hastily scurrying out.
Which leaves Izz alone, under the warm spray. With his erection raging and demanding attention. He’s still pent up over their activities in Sin’s cell.
And he is alone . . .
Glancing around, he takes a deep breath, and before he can talk himself out of it his hand is wrapping around his cock. Stroking his length as he pinched his eyes shut. He wants to get it over with as quick as possible so he doesn’t get caught wanking in the showers. Not that he hasn’t seen multiple men in here shamelessly touching themselves. He, on the other hand, is extremely shy when it comes to this and would probably die of embarrassment if he were to be caught.
The slice in his side is throbbing under the warm spray. Reminding him of its presence. He’s reluctant to admit that the pain feels somewhat good. The small tingling throb . . .
Izz tentatively hovers his other hand over his side. Lingering mid-air for a moment before applying pressure—
He gasps as sparking sensations radiate down his side, traveling over his ribs to fan out inside his stomach, shooting into his cock.
He drops his forehead against the tiled wall. Working his hand up and down his shaft as he plays with the slice in his side. His thighs trembling. Rapidly approaching his release.
Several strokes later he’s biting his lip as an explosion of pleasure splinters him apart. Rope after rope of hot cum spurts out of his twitching length. Spluttering on the tiles to be quickly washed away by the water’s flow.
He stands there, alone, shuddering, as his body pulls itself back together. Slowly blinking his eyes open—
Sin’s leaning right next to Izz, a smirk gracing his lips. And he holds no apology for sneaking up on Izz to watch him pleasure himself.
Izz fights back the urge to drown himself out of sheer embarrassment. “O-okay, so I like knife-play. Leave me be.”
Sin’s smirk only grows, a full-blown sinister grin spreading across his face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Izz can feel the hyper excitement radiating out of him. Knows he’s pleased. Knows he must be thinking about how much further he can take it. Now that he’s confirmed Izz enjoys the new kink . . .
Izz’s eyes drag to his wound . . .
Will the cut leave a scar?
A new brand to go along with the tattoo he wears. The bruises his body bears. A scar to show he belongs to Sin . . .
Perhaps he should get some more tattoos, to represent himself, before he’s covered in marks from another . . . Don’t get him wrong, he loves the bruises and bites marring his flesh. He’d just like something to portray who he is.
“I think I’d want another tattoo.” Izz flicks the showers spay off, finished with his rinse and scrub routine. “When I get out.” He’d need to find a job first, and make sure his family has food, shelter, warmth—
“I’ll get you one in here.” Sin stalks Izz out, his massive body pressing close behind as Izz stops in front of his clean clothes.
Izz picks up his towel. Rubbing it over his warm damp skin. “I can’t keep sponging off you.”
Sin’s already buying him food and treats, and card games, and mattresses—which cost so much in here, he’d have to sell a kidney to afford it on his prison job’s meagre pay.
“I don’t mind.”
“But I do,” Izz snaps.
Sin doesn’t seem to care about money. Treating it as one would an apple core—throwing it away with no regard. Izz would love to have so much money he could afford to throw it at people.
“Why.” Sin seems genuinely puzzled by Izz’s refusal. “It’s my money to spend on whatever I want.”
Because I want to earn my own keep in the world, and not be reliant on others . . .
It would be nice though. For once. To be the one someone gifts money to, and not the one who has to earn it for the family.
“I-I—it just matters,” Izz doesn’t know how to explain it. How to word his past—how he is supposed to be the responsible one, and it feels weird to have someone else in the role.
Sin chuckles, in his usual dry humourless way, “your mind’s a curious thing, isn’t it. So caught up in others, you’re not taking the time to get what you want. Denying yourself. For what. Social standing. Because society says it’s wrong to sponge off someone who’s doting on you.”
“It’s called a gold-digger,” Izz mumbles. He doesn’t want to be one of those either.
When no reply comes back, he looks over at Sin, who’s smirking at him. A playful light glinting in his black eyes.
“You can always say I ‘demanded it of you, for my protection’, if it makes you feel better.”
Izz scrunches his nose at Sin, impulsively sticking his tongue out—
He ducks his eyes. Regretting the childish act. It doesn’t help his whole I-can-take-care-of-myself monologue.
“Come, we’re leaving,” Sin commands, fully dressed and prowling to the door without waiting for Izz’s replay.
Izz hops after him. Trying to move and pull his last shoe on at the same time. He calls it an accomplishment for not tripping and face planting.
“Where to?” Izz questions, stomping his heel into his shoe as he obediently follows after Sin.
“You have a tattoo to receive.”
“W-what? No—” Izz stutters, trying his best to think of some sort of protest.
Sin ignores him, speaking right over the top of him as though Izz hasn’t said a word, “you want one, don’t you.”
Well, yes. He does. But . . .
What’s the difference between a tattoo and all the gifts he’s already given you . . . ?
“Yes . . .” Izz gives in reluctantly.
It is true, Sin’s been buying him things since the moment he walked into prison all those weeks ago. And he’s accepted them all. Hell, he sleeps on one of those gifts every night and his back is grateful for it.
He truly does want a tattoo. Not sure why it feels a little off to have Sin buying it for him—he assumes Sin will be buying it? He’s not sure how the payments for tattoos go down in prison. Is it favours? Cash? Commissary goods?
He can’t recall if Sin had given the artist money the last time. He doesn’t think so. He’d been pretty out of it when he got his first one. Way too excited to be getting inked, he barely remembers anything else happening around him.
~~~
And that’s how Izz finds himself in the same cell in I-Wing. With the artist . . . he can’t remember his name—if the guy had told Izz his name the first time?
Sin’s in a chair by his head as Izz lies on his stomach on the tortuously bare prison bunk, his pant leg bunched up above the knee. The artist’s back is to them, sitting in another chair, hunching over Izz’s exposed leg.
“I don’t know why you pay for this stuff,” Izz winces as the needle passes over a particularly sensitive place on his calf, “it’s not like I do anything in return for it.”
Sin smirks, the only warning Izz receives before he opens his mouth in reply, “so you don’t bend over for me. I was imagining you sprawled out on my bunk—”
“Oh, my God. Stop,” Izz frantically looks back at the artist. He’s never felt so embarrassed in his entire life—
“Satan,” Sin sits up in his chair, leaning closer to Izz.
“Huh?”
“Your God reference is repulsive,” Sin slides his fingers through Izz’s hair, tugging lightly, sending an immediate response to Izz’s cock, “ oh, Satan . Is the term you should use . . . If you want me to do sin unto your body.”
Fuck . . .
He is now officially getting a tattoo with a raging hard-on digging into the metal bunk below him. No squishy relaxing tattoo chairs in prison, to cushion his raging erection.
He’s ashamed of his body’s reaction. Of how easily Sin gets inside his head . . . How much of a hold Sin has over him . . .
You truly are ruined . . .