The Prisoner excerpt

Entering Charley’s room, I found myself transported into a different scene. The bedroom was austere: a gray-sheeted double bed against the wall, no rug, the only other furnishing stood opposite the bed–a wooden construction composed of a sturdy upright and a crossbeam; it resembled a crucifix. Desolation filled the room; the air itself felt devoid of any happiness, and that depressed me.

Leaning against the cross, Charley held his hands behind his back. Barefoot, he wore torn camouflage pants and a stained green tank top that clung to his well-developed torso. Dog tags hung from his neck, resting in the valley between his pecs. His hair was mussed, and he had smudged soot or something across his nose and cheeks. He stared at me; his eyes daring me to pass judgment on him. Again I was struck by how he had changed. Not just older, he’d become different: He was not the adult that my Charley would have become. His arc had been altered.

“I’m your prisoner of war.” His voice sounded flat, matter-of-fact. His eyes never left mine. “You’re responsible for interrogating me. I may have information vital to your cause. You’ve had me locked up for a week, starving me, but I haven’t said shit so far. That’s why you’ve brought me here. I need additional … persuasion.”

He flashed me a reassuring grin and the young Charley shone through for a moment. “Don’t worry, Jake. I’ll guide you through this.”

Just as quickly the grin vanished, replaced with a sneer. “See those cuffs above my head? Put my hands in them, turn the key and place the key in your pocket.”

Part of me wanted to say, “Let’s cut the theater, get naked on the bed and fuck like we used to.” But another part, a part I thought long healed, wanted to go where this was going, wanted revenge. Maybe Charley knew that, maybe he wanted it too. I obeyed.

Stepping back, I studied him, now spread-eagled before me. He pulled against the restraints, apparently judging the seriousness of my participation. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged as he strained against the hand-cuffs. A trickle of sweat ran down his arm, darkening the edge of his tank top. I wanted to lick him, wanted to taste the salt on his skin. That realization drove blood straight up my cock. I was rock hard.

Charley gestured toward the bed with his chin. “Now go and get some nipple clamps.”

I turned to the bed; laid out upon the gray sheet were implements I had only seen on porn sites: clamps, cock rings, a riding crop, items I didn’t recognize. I picked up some clamps with jagged edges, like shark’s teeth.

“See that chain? Attach each of the clamps to the chain. Good. Now put them on me.” He inhaled and his nipples pressed at the thin cloth of the shirt; already he was aroused. His breathing sharpened when I fastened the mean looking pincers onto his chest. “Now twist.” I gave each of the clamps a cautious turn.


I hesitated, thinking of what Trey had done to Charley in school.

“Pull, you lazy bastard!”

His attitude raked at the scar tissue on my heart, angering me. I grabbed the chain and yanked hard, twisting his swollen nipples. I watched him squirm and arch his back; his body’s reaction to the pain aroused me even more. I released the tension then pulled again and again. Charley groaned and panted, but said nothing.

Panting myself and frightened by my growing excitement, I let go of the chain. That obviously dissatisfied my old roommate.

“I love it,” he sneered, a cruel smile playing across his lips. “They send a boy to do a man’s work.”

— © C.C. Williams 2012

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