The Bad Job (Epilogue) [Leverage]
Previous
Uh... warning for triggers.
It's 2013, January. Malcolm Miles Winham the Fifth shifts in his prison jumpsuit, even after half a year inside not comfortable with the scratchy material. They probably used too much starch again, in the laundry, but there's not much you can teach wealthy, spoiled people about washing clothes, he assumes.
In the background, Rachmaninow's “Spring” is silently playing over the sound-system, creating a pleasant background though Winham'd rather listen to Beethoven.
Over all, he shouldn't complain. His cell is cosy and private, the company pleasant though admittedly not exactly what you might call “high society”. Those are held in the eastern part of the prison, and he can't fathom how they get to live. Apart from the bars in front of his windows and the limited time in the yard, Winham couldn't wish for a better place to be stuck in.
The trial took six months, months in which he felt so close to despair that he'd nearly ended his life - if he'd had the means. Everything he did have - shoelaces, cutting his wrists with a plastic-knife - was way too messy and sounded way too painful in his head. He'd not been that desperate, and now he's glad.
Sure, his wife left him, took everything he owned and even took the cat, but it's not really that he could blame her. He'd not have wanted to live with her if she'd been unfaithful, and he had been. He'd planned to take a lover, planned to get the step from just imagine himself with smooth, unwrinkled, fresh-smelling skin while sleeping with her to actually having that lithe, small, delicate body in his bed.
So he wouldn't blame her, he actually hopes she'll be happy. He'd liked her, in a distant kind of way, might have loved her even. But she'd not been what he'd desired, so anything beyond affection and the expected nuptial duty once a week had been too much to ask.
He'd hoped to see the little boy, Ryan, not Eliot, as it turned out, during the trial, see his big, amazingly talkative eyes and the slender figure once more to give him something to hang on to. Winham knew, in some corner of his mind, that it wasn't supposed to be like this, that he should feel shame, regret and horror for what he'd nearly done - for what he'd been caught doing. He didn't, though, he still doesn't. The only regret he has is that they took away his security as a witness, and even that isn't too awful here, behind these walls.
He's safe and he's comfortable, time to read and to dream and there's not even a cellmate, as he'd first feared, who would bother him or witness his jerk-off-sessions at night. The walls are thick enough to block out his moans when he grabs his dick tight and imagines the clean, soft skin of small ass-cheeks surrounding it; thick enough to block his shouted “Ryan” when he comes.
With pleasant memories of last night, he starts towards the dining-room, whistling along with the piano from the speakers. He turns a corner, steps muffled by the sturdy but clean carpeting and is jerked out of his dreams when he bumps into something that isn't there, usually.
“Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you,” he smiles when he realizes it was a wide chest, belonging to a thick-set man whom he'd not yet seen around. He must've come with the last bus, a new convict, and he could be curious about his reasons for being here but he's a bit hungry, hoping he'll get some eggs Benedict which are usually eaten by the time he arrives for breakfast at nine.
“That is fine, Mr. Winham,” the man rumbles and takes a step back. “I didn't expect you to see me.”
“Oh, you know my name?” He's a bit pleased, even though it's not really an accomplishment to be imprisoned, the trial had been held without the public and he'd felt a little duped from the lack of recognition he got inside.
“I do,” the stranger says, smiling pleasantly and taking one more step back, yet still right in front of Winham. “I heard a lot about you. Fascinating.”
Winham smiles, it never hurts to be polite. “Thank you, I guess. Uh... do you want something else? I was just on my way to breakfast, so if you haven't eaten, you can come along.”
“Ah, I don't want to bother you. There is just one minor thing, It'll really not take long. Would you mind,” he shifts, looks around but there is nobody close by. “Would you mind coming with me?”
“Well...” A glance at his watch tells Miles that it doesn't matter anyway, the eggs would be gone by now. He nods, surprised when he realizes that he'd not been closer to the dining area but instead seemed to have moved backwards. It doesn't strike him as suspicious, though, the stranger is kind and friendly, with a slow smile on his lips and no dark intent visible in his eyes.
They don't go far, just a few feet to the right, there is a door that leads to the recreation room and the stranger leads him in there, even holding the door. Kind of him, Winham thinks and steps inside.
**
“So, what can I do for you?” He turns around when he hears the door close, spots the stranger turning the key. Now, he does get a little nervous and backs away, because alone in a room with an unknown, big and burly man isn't his favorite place to be. Even when said man is still smiling disarmingly.
“Oh, you could do a lot for me, Milesy. A whole lotta lot.”
“Uh...” Slowly, he backs away, scrambling when his companion picks up a metal baseball-bat that he'd not seen but which has obviously been placed there in advance. Still, the smile stays on.
“You know,” the man says, advancing steadily while Winham backs away faster and faster, losing his footing every now and then. “You know, I understand desire. I do. It's a strong force, and I know people can't help what they feel. See, I desire women. Busty women, with narrow hips. I love having my dick stroked by a woman's tits. I can't help but salivate when I see one who's just right.”
“Uh... that's fa-fascinating, I'm sure. I... I'm not … really equipped with breasts, I'm sorry to say,” he stammers, but the stranger just laughs.
“You think I wanna fuck you? Naw, you're not my type and I wouldn't force my dick to sully itself with your insides! See, I'm not done talking.” Winham's in a corner now, wedged in between the weight-bench and something that might be an instrument for training your legs, or it might be something entirely different. He doesn't care what it is, except for the fact that it's blocking his way out. Now, the stranger is close enough that he can read his prisoner's badge, number 6 27 19 74. No name, but that's not unusual. Winham doesn't have one on his shirt either.
“Wh-what do you want, then?”
“Nothing, to be honest. This is not personal, though I don't mind doing it as much as I would mind other things.” He smirks and now, there is a wicked glint in his eyes. He hefts the bat, studying it and seemingly stroking the wide part. “Well, let's skip the foreplay, shall we?”
Quick like a snake, he grabs Miles at his shirt and jerks him towards him, kicking his legs out from him and twisting his arms behind his back, practically bending him over. Winham gasps but swiftly, 6 27 19 74 stuffs a cloth inside is mouth, tying it with a shoelace that cuts deeply into his cheeks. He's gagged, and his screams of terror are muffled, probably not even leaving the room. He suddenly realizes why the soundproofing of this prison might not be such a smart idea...
Shoving him, hard, the prisoner pushes him over the bench, holding Miles down with his arm twisted so painfully that every move hurts his teeth. He feels him undoing his belt and nestling with his pants and Winham tries to blank his mind, tries hard, so hard not to know or imagine what will happen next.
“I could say 'Relax, then it won't hurt so much' or 'I really don't like doing this' … But I'd hate lying to you. Not when we were getting along so well,” 6 27 whispers into his ear.
Next thing Miles knows, there is a very cold, very blunt pressure at the end of his back and his mind screams at him to run, flee, go, black out - escape, but his limbs are frozen in terror.
His vocal cords are still working fine, though.
**
Outside the rec-room, a janitor with a pony-tail places a Maintenance, closed until noon sign in front of the door. He frowns when he hears a muffled sound from within, but none of the prisoners or guards that move through the hallways heard or pay attention to it.
Sometimes, he'd let debts slide by, forgetting to collect. Often, though, it comes in handy to know people like him, who owe him. Owe him big.
The janitor starts the vaccuum-cleaner, humming words to a song playing on his iPod. ”What I've felt, what I've known, never shined through in what I've shown...“
~the real end~
Uh... warning for triggers.
It's 2013, January. Malcolm Miles Winham the Fifth shifts in his prison jumpsuit, even after half a year inside not comfortable with the scratchy material. They probably used too much starch again, in the laundry, but there's not much you can teach wealthy, spoiled people about washing clothes, he assumes.
In the background, Rachmaninow's “Spring” is silently playing over the sound-system, creating a pleasant background though Winham'd rather listen to Beethoven.
Over all, he shouldn't complain. His cell is cosy and private, the company pleasant though admittedly not exactly what you might call “high society”. Those are held in the eastern part of the prison, and he can't fathom how they get to live. Apart from the bars in front of his windows and the limited time in the yard, Winham couldn't wish for a better place to be stuck in.
The trial took six months, months in which he felt so close to despair that he'd nearly ended his life - if he'd had the means. Everything he did have - shoelaces, cutting his wrists with a plastic-knife - was way too messy and sounded way too painful in his head. He'd not been that desperate, and now he's glad.
Sure, his wife left him, took everything he owned and even took the cat, but it's not really that he could blame her. He'd not have wanted to live with her if she'd been unfaithful, and he had been. He'd planned to take a lover, planned to get the step from just imagine himself with smooth, unwrinkled, fresh-smelling skin while sleeping with her to actually having that lithe, small, delicate body in his bed.
So he wouldn't blame her, he actually hopes she'll be happy. He'd liked her, in a distant kind of way, might have loved her even. But she'd not been what he'd desired, so anything beyond affection and the expected nuptial duty once a week had been too much to ask.
He'd hoped to see the little boy, Ryan, not Eliot, as it turned out, during the trial, see his big, amazingly talkative eyes and the slender figure once more to give him something to hang on to. Winham knew, in some corner of his mind, that it wasn't supposed to be like this, that he should feel shame, regret and horror for what he'd nearly done - for what he'd been caught doing. He didn't, though, he still doesn't. The only regret he has is that they took away his security as a witness, and even that isn't too awful here, behind these walls.
He's safe and he's comfortable, time to read and to dream and there's not even a cellmate, as he'd first feared, who would bother him or witness his jerk-off-sessions at night. The walls are thick enough to block out his moans when he grabs his dick tight and imagines the clean, soft skin of small ass-cheeks surrounding it; thick enough to block his shouted “Ryan” when he comes.
With pleasant memories of last night, he starts towards the dining-room, whistling along with the piano from the speakers. He turns a corner, steps muffled by the sturdy but clean carpeting and is jerked out of his dreams when he bumps into something that isn't there, usually.
“Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you,” he smiles when he realizes it was a wide chest, belonging to a thick-set man whom he'd not yet seen around. He must've come with the last bus, a new convict, and he could be curious about his reasons for being here but he's a bit hungry, hoping he'll get some eggs Benedict which are usually eaten by the time he arrives for breakfast at nine.
“That is fine, Mr. Winham,” the man rumbles and takes a step back. “I didn't expect you to see me.”
“Oh, you know my name?” He's a bit pleased, even though it's not really an accomplishment to be imprisoned, the trial had been held without the public and he'd felt a little duped from the lack of recognition he got inside.
“I do,” the stranger says, smiling pleasantly and taking one more step back, yet still right in front of Winham. “I heard a lot about you. Fascinating.”
Winham smiles, it never hurts to be polite. “Thank you, I guess. Uh... do you want something else? I was just on my way to breakfast, so if you haven't eaten, you can come along.”
“Ah, I don't want to bother you. There is just one minor thing, It'll really not take long. Would you mind,” he shifts, looks around but there is nobody close by. “Would you mind coming with me?”
“Well...” A glance at his watch tells Miles that it doesn't matter anyway, the eggs would be gone by now. He nods, surprised when he realizes that he'd not been closer to the dining area but instead seemed to have moved backwards. It doesn't strike him as suspicious, though, the stranger is kind and friendly, with a slow smile on his lips and no dark intent visible in his eyes.
They don't go far, just a few feet to the right, there is a door that leads to the recreation room and the stranger leads him in there, even holding the door. Kind of him, Winham thinks and steps inside.
**
“So, what can I do for you?” He turns around when he hears the door close, spots the stranger turning the key. Now, he does get a little nervous and backs away, because alone in a room with an unknown, big and burly man isn't his favorite place to be. Even when said man is still smiling disarmingly.
“Oh, you could do a lot for me, Milesy. A whole lotta lot.”
“Uh...” Slowly, he backs away, scrambling when his companion picks up a metal baseball-bat that he'd not seen but which has obviously been placed there in advance. Still, the smile stays on.
“You know,” the man says, advancing steadily while Winham backs away faster and faster, losing his footing every now and then. “You know, I understand desire. I do. It's a strong force, and I know people can't help what they feel. See, I desire women. Busty women, with narrow hips. I love having my dick stroked by a woman's tits. I can't help but salivate when I see one who's just right.”
“Uh... that's fa-fascinating, I'm sure. I... I'm not … really equipped with breasts, I'm sorry to say,” he stammers, but the stranger just laughs.
“You think I wanna fuck you? Naw, you're not my type and I wouldn't force my dick to sully itself with your insides! See, I'm not done talking.” Winham's in a corner now, wedged in between the weight-bench and something that might be an instrument for training your legs, or it might be something entirely different. He doesn't care what it is, except for the fact that it's blocking his way out. Now, the stranger is close enough that he can read his prisoner's badge, number 6 27 19 74. No name, but that's not unusual. Winham doesn't have one on his shirt either.
“Wh-what do you want, then?”
“Nothing, to be honest. This is not personal, though I don't mind doing it as much as I would mind other things.” He smirks and now, there is a wicked glint in his eyes. He hefts the bat, studying it and seemingly stroking the wide part. “Well, let's skip the foreplay, shall we?”
Quick like a snake, he grabs Miles at his shirt and jerks him towards him, kicking his legs out from him and twisting his arms behind his back, practically bending him over. Winham gasps but swiftly, 6 27 19 74 stuffs a cloth inside is mouth, tying it with a shoelace that cuts deeply into his cheeks. He's gagged, and his screams of terror are muffled, probably not even leaving the room. He suddenly realizes why the soundproofing of this prison might not be such a smart idea...
Shoving him, hard, the prisoner pushes him over the bench, holding Miles down with his arm twisted so painfully that every move hurts his teeth. He feels him undoing his belt and nestling with his pants and Winham tries to blank his mind, tries hard, so hard not to know or imagine what will happen next.
“I could say 'Relax, then it won't hurt so much' or 'I really don't like doing this' … But I'd hate lying to you. Not when we were getting along so well,” 6 27 whispers into his ear.
Next thing Miles knows, there is a very cold, very blunt pressure at the end of his back and his mind screams at him to run, flee, go, black out - escape, but his limbs are frozen in terror.
His vocal cords are still working fine, though.
**
Outside the rec-room, a janitor with a pony-tail places a Maintenance, closed until noon sign in front of the door. He frowns when he hears a muffled sound from within, but none of the prisoners or guards that move through the hallways heard or pay attention to it.
Sometimes, he'd let debts slide by, forgetting to collect. Often, though, it comes in handy to know people like him, who owe him. Owe him big.
The janitor starts the vaccuum-cleaner, humming words to a song playing on his iPod. ”What I've felt, what I've known, never shined through in what I've shown...“
~the real end~