Chapter Seven

The nightmare of prison had shifted. Milo no longer felt constantly terrified. Instead, he felt like a puppet, his limbs bound by invisible strings that were manipulated by Torres’s whims. He rose from his bunk, his body numb and heavy, as if weighed down. The morning routine loomed over him, a seemingly insurmountable task.

But Torres would growl for him to hurry up and Milo would get into gear, following Torres to the showers, washing mechanically while Torres blocked anyone else from looking at him.

One of the other inmates got a little too close one morning and Torres snarled at him. Milo had been embarrassed by it, but also oddly gratified. It was as if Torres valued him, like a dog barking over a bone.

Except he’s not the dog, Milo thought, watching Torres under the spray. I am.

In the showers, the steamy air was thick with sweat and testosterone. Milo stole glances at Torres, whose muscular body was slick with water and soap. His skin glowed golden brown, like polished amber, and Milo found himself entranced by the play of light as the water cascaded over him.

“Quit staring, putita,” Torres growled, breaking Milo’s trance.

“Sorry,” Milo muttered, averting his eyes. Despite the reprimand, he couldn’t shake the image of Torres’s powerful frame, so different from his own. It made him feel strangely safe.

Torres dominated every space he entered, and the cafeteria was no exception. As they sat down, the other inmates instinctively made room for them—or more accurately, for Torres. Milo could feel the weight of their gazes, the judgment and curiosity that came with being openly claimed as Torres’s property.

He lined up to collect their food and brought the tray to Torres. Torres took it without comment, continuing his conversation. He was speaking rapid Spanish with a man Milo had seen him talking to before—Rafael, his name was. Rafael glanced at him and said something to Torres which made Torres look at Milo too. Milo sat up straight, ready to be chastised.

“Here,” Torres grunted, shoving one of the plates across the table. “Eat.”

“Thanks,” Milo mumbled, picking at his food. Swallowing each bite felt like a struggle, but he forced it down, fearing the consequences if he failed to meet Torres’s expectations.

Fuck, how did I end up here?Milo thought wretchedly. Why does this man have so much power over me?

“Stop thinking so fucking loud,” Torres said abruptly. “You’ve got that look on your face like you’re about to piss yourself.”

“Sorry,” Milo said, his cheeks flushing crimson.

“Relax,” Torres said, his voice lowering to a dangerous purr. “You’re mine now—no-one’s going to fuck with you.”

Milo shivered at the possessive tone, his body betraying him with a surge of arousal. He hated how he reacted to Torres, but he couldn’t deny the truth: he was attracted to Torres’s violent masculinity, the raw power that pulsed beneath his skin.

“Now, finish your fucking breakfast.” Torres’s voice was a low growl that sent shivers over Milo’s skin.

Life followed a pattern, with little variation. Wake up, shower, breakfast, yard. Lunch, work detail, yard, dinner, back to the cell. Lights out. And after lights out…well.

Sometimes the work detail was in the morning, sometimes the afternoon. Today they had afternoon laundry. In the hot, steamy room, Milo could feel the eyes of other inmates on him, watching as he meekly submitted to Torres’s orders.

“You listening to me?” Torres demanded.

“Y-yes, Torres,” Milo replied hesitantly. The air felt heavy with tension, and he knew that every move he made was being scrutinized by the other inmates around them.

“Oh, so you’re gonna use my name like you have any right?” Torres scoffed, his dark eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to Milo. “I don’t like that. Try again.”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Milo stammered, his cheeks burning with humiliation as he heard snickers from the other inmates.

“Better. Now, fold these towels and don’t fuck it up,” Torres ordered, shoving a pile of laundry into Milo’s arms.

Milo focused on folding the towels as neatly as possible, trying to block out the fact that he was openly Torres’s submissive bitch in front of everyone. His hands shook slightly as he worked, struggling to keep his composure under the weight of the situation.

“Is that how I taught you to fold, putita?” Torres barked, smacking the back of Milo’s head. “Do it right, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Milo said.

Putita. Milo had an idea of what it meant. Puta was, well, whore. He’d heard the Latinos call each other ‘puto’ and knew that it showed a rough kind of camaraderie. But when it was feminine, when it was ‘puta’, then it was essentially the same as ‘bitch’. And ‘putita’, pretty as it sounded, was ‘little bitch’.

That’s me now,Milo thought, refolding the towel. He focused on the crisp, precise lines he knew Torres demanded.

“Better,” Torres grunted, his hand coming to rest on Milo’s lower back in a possessive gesture. “Keep it up.”

Milo couldn’t help leaning into Torres’s touch, craving the contact. The pressure of Torres’s hand on his back seemed to anchor him amidst the chaos of his emotions, and he knew that he would do whatever it took to keep that connection.

“Sir?” he asked.

“What? Speak up,” Torres commanded, his grip tightening on Milo’s waist.

“Am I doing this right?” Milo asked, louder this time, betraying his neediness.

“Almost,” Torres said, his lips brushing against the shell of Milo’s ear. “But you’ll have to work harder if you want to please me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Milo said, shivering despite the heat.

After laundry duty they were released to the prison yard. The sun blazed down on them, no relief after the hot laundry room. Still, the humidity was less. Milo swiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Gone were the days of Milo skulking around the yard trying to stay out of the way. Now he shadowed Torres everywhere.

Torres sat on a bench in the sun and jerked his head at Milo. “On the ground,” he ordered.

“What?” Milo gaped at him, appalled.

But Torres just pointed and said, “You’re gonna do what I tell you.”

Milo shuddered. His whole body felt hot as he sat at Torres’s feet. The rough concrete was unforgiving beneath his knees, but he wouldn’t dare shift his position or complain. He could feel the eyes of the other inmates, their mocking glances and sneers.

Milo tried to tune them out, focusing instead on the proximity of Torres’s body beside him. He didn’t understand why he felt this mix of shame and arousal, but the conflicting emotions left him trembling.

Torres lounged back on his bench. Then, he lifted his boot and rested it casually on Milo’s thigh, asserting his dominance. Milo’s heart raced, both terrified and thrilled by the way Torres claimed him so boldly. His body responded to the public display of submission, his cock swelling against the confines of his pants. He was mortified, but something about it was so compelling.

“Good boy,” Torres said mockingly. “You know your place.”

Milo’s heart beat fast. His breath came shallow, and his eyes blurred with tears. But something about this felt good. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the treacherous thought. Humiliation burned through him and he liked it. God, he was fucked up. How could anyone like this?

He glanced up at Torres and he knew. Damn it, I shouldn’t be into him. He’s a devil.

Whether he was the better of evils in this place remained to be seen, but one thing was clear: he belonged to Torres, and there was no going back now.

***

Night had its own routine. In their cell, in Torres’s bunk, Milo was hard up against Torres’s body. The heat between them was nearly suffocating, but neither made any move to create distance.

Milo couldn’t ignore the fact that his erection was pressing firmly into Torres’s thigh. He tried to focus on anything else but could not. The blood rushed in his ears, deafening.

Okay, I have to move. He took a deep breath and rolled over, putting his back to Torres.

Immediately, Torres shifted, his chest coming up against Milo’s back. Milo hoped that if he stayed perfectly still, Torres might assume he was asleep, and the moment would pass. But Torres shifted his weight slightly, pushing his leg between Milo’s thighs. Milo let out a soft gasp. He quickly tried to play it off as a sigh, but his pulse raced.

Torres didn’t make a sound, and for a moment, Milo thought maybe he hadn’t heard. But then a hand came to rest on Milo’s hip. The contact sent a thrill of desire through him, making it hard to think straight.

Silently, Torres’s grip on Milo’s hip tightened, anchoring Milo in place. Milo tried to suppress a shudder, torn between wanting to pull away and craving the intensity of Torres’s touch.

Milo pretended to be asleep. He could feel Torres’s breath against the back of his neck, each exhale sending a shiver down his spine.

Fuck, Milo thought to himself, wondering how long he could maintain this ruse when every fiber of his being was screaming for more contact. What the fuck am I doing?

He was on the verge of losing his mind when he felt Torres’s hand slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers tracing their way along the sensitive skin just above his cock. He bit down on his lip, trying to stifle an involuntary moan as Torres’s touch sent shivers of pleasure up his spine.

Shit, Milo thought, struggling not to vibrate out of his skin. He knows. He must know.

His cock strained toward Torres’s hand. He was so hard now he could barely breathe.

Torres’s fingertips moved down, grazed the base of his erection. Milo whimpered, trembling with a mixture of pleasure and shame. He wanted this—wanted Torres—but at the same time, fear gnawed at the edges of his desire. He didn’t think he could trust Torres.

But who else can I trust?

Torres pressed himself close, his muscular chest warm against Milo’s back. The heat between them made Milo feel almost feverish, his skin prickling with desire.

Those rough fingers curled around Milo’s cock, just holding him for a moment. The shock of contact sent waves of desire coursing through him, and he bit down on his lip to suppress any sound. Every brush of Torres’s fingers against his sensitive flesh felt like forbidden pleasure, amplified by the sense of danger that accompanied it.

Milo struggled to keep silent as that hand explored him. It slid down to cup his balls, almost gently. Despite everything, Milo couldn’t help but respond eagerly, his hips involuntarily bucking into Torres’s touch.

Fuck, Milo thought desperately. How the hell am I supposed to pretend this isn’t happening?

He knew that this was a dangerous game. If Torres really was asleep and this was unintentional, he might kill Milo if he woke up. But damn, if it wasn’t the most exhilarating thing he’d ever experienced. With each caress, each teasing stroke, Milo sank further into this delicious hell.

God, what is he doing to me?Milo wondered, feeling as though he was teetering on the edge of an abyss, bracing for the inevitable fall. He knew that submitting to Torres meant placing himself at the mercy of a man who could very well end him. Yet, despite—or perhaps because of—this knowledge, Milo craved the thrill of surrender, even as he feared the price he might pay for it.

His breath hitched in his throat as he came to a shocking realization. He enjoyed being touched by Torres like this, the rough hand exploring him intimately, teasing and testing his limits. The thought of being completely under Torres’s control, existing solely for his pleasure, sent a shiver down Milo’s spine that only fuelled his arousal.

Fuck, he thought. I really am his bitch now.

Despite the fear, Milo couldn’t deny that there was something intoxicatingly erotic about submitting to Torres. His heart raced at the thought of what might come next, and it seemed that each new touch only heightened his anticipation.

Torres’s fingers stroked him slowly, and Milo knew there was no going back. He couldn’t pretend that this hadn’t happened or that his body wasn’t responding eagerly to the other man’s touch. And Torres knew it too.

Milo chest tightened with anxiety. He knows how much I want him. He must.

That hand slid away from him, moving back up to rest possessively on Milo’s chest. Milo struggled not to squirm, his cock still hard and aching.

God help me,Milo thought, his body trembling with pent up dissatisfaction. I can’t stand this much longer.