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By *rgeo OP Man
5 weeks ago
WOLVERHAMPTON |
Apparently, he had killed a man about twenty years ago, when he was in his mid-forties and the other man was only eighteen. He had been on Death Row ever since and tomorrow was finally the day, designated by the state, for his execution. Now, well into his sixties, he was starting to look frail and old, beaten down by a poor diet and years of sitting staring into space, occasionally reading a good book, doing chores in the library, cleaning out his cell.
As a Death Row inmate he had a cell to himself. This made his life even lonelier than it would ordinarily have been in prison. As a sex offender, it also meant that he could only mix with others branded with the same tag, chiefly for his own protection.
From the first day until the last he was never any trouble to the guards, to the other prisoners, to the other staff. He accepted what had happened to him and was waiting for his turn to die. The irony was that he had never done anything to the boy that the boy himself had not begged for. They had met one another in a bathhouse. Both of them had slipped into the place almost by accident, looking for a few hours of escape from their lonely lives.
The young man had liked it rough and he had tried to oblige, not knowing that his own natural strength would be enough to slip the boy over from life into death. He had been a wrestler and had firm arm muscles.
They had gone to a room together and, in the heat of their passion, accidentally, he had squeezed the life out of the boy, who had pleaded to be crushed, held down, penetrated forcibly, squeezed round the throat. Obviously, the boy did not wish to die; he wanted only the sexual thrill of surrendering himself to a stronger, older man.
Once he realised that the boy was unconscious, he called for help. It was slow in coming. Maybe, with a bit more speed from the bathhouse staff and a faster response from the emergency services, the lad could have been revived. As it was, he died before they could get him into the ambulance.
The police accompanying the ambulance watched as he dressed, handcuffed him and took him away. He was never free again. Only tonight, on the eve of his execution, would he find freedom.
Supper had been served and the guards were preparing for lights out. The whole cell block was unusually quiet. The other men knew the significance of this evening. Normally, they would have been shouting and hammering, voicing their objections to another of their flock being taken away for slaughter. This time it was different. The man in the cell awaiting his final punishment was different. The mood was sombre and sustained, quiet chattering only, whispering voices across a hallway or into the ears of a cell-mate next door.
At midnight, the entire place was in silence. This was unheard of here. A lone guard patrolled outside, his rubber soled feet making barely a sound as he paced up and down, his nightstick at his side. In the distance, behind a closed metal-barred grille, two other guards were playing cards, waiting for their turn at patrol duty. The shift changed at 2am, so there was plenty of time for them to play a few decent hands. The guard on patrol wondered what they might be playing, guessed poker or blackjack, the two favourites. He himself would have picked a more interesting game to play, perhaps Bezique. It was a game he used to play with his aunts and his mother, a long time ago now.
The guard himself was coming to the end of something too. At sixty, he was but a few weeks from his retirement. He had lived for thirty years with another man, who had died about two years ago. His life had been difficult, but happy. He had only partly hid his relationship with his male partner, and certainly not from his family and friends who knew all about it. But from his colleagues it was long hidden, unmentionable.
At a quarter past midnight he entered the cell of the condemned man, making as little noise as possible. The cell in question was out of sight of the other guards; hopefully, they would think he was patrolling the other end of the section, around the corner from their station. Ultimately, he did not care. The prisoner sat up, startled, raising himself on his elbow to see who was coming into his space. He vaguely recognised the guard, but had had no prolonged contact with him. The guard's name was unknown to him. Possibly, he had seen him at mealtimes, as he came to think about it and his eyes adjusted to the dark.
The guard came over to where the prisoner was lying and knelt beside him. He put his finger to his lips, signalling for him to remain silent. He bent over and kissed him on the forehead, stroking him on the hair. There was an intense yet friendly look on his face, though it was hard to see one another in the dark. This was how it had been twenty years ago. It was so dark in that little cubicle with that slim lad that they had struggled to see one another clearly. Most of what they did was by touch. They had started off very gently with one another, just as the guard himself now was being gentle. They had held tight to one another. They had breathed in and out, not knowing that for the lad these breaths would be among his last.
The guard moved his hand to the prisoner's waist and carefully raised his shirt. There was grey hair covering his chest, thick, rampant, lush, soft against the guard's hand. He rubbed his hand up and down through the field of hair. A line of fine hair went from the prison's chest down to his midriff. The guard slipped his hand under the other man's sheets and rested it on the outside of his pants. The prisoner whimpered like a puppy. He had not been touched like this for twenty years. At the sound of the whimpering, the guard shifted his position and leaned in to kiss the prisoner on the lips. They kissed slowly, deeply and passionately for a long time, the guard rubbing on the prisoner's groin with his hand, bringing to life his manhood and his majesty.
They stopped kissing and the guard carefully peeled back the prisoner's pants. He took what was there between his lips, moistening it with his saliva, peeling back the skin around it and digging deep around it with his tongue. The man was shivering with pleasure. He lay back with his eyes closed, tears coming from his eyes, though the guard would have been unable to see them. Throughout, the guard remained fully dressed. Whether or not he had an erection too is impossible to say. It was too dark to see. But for the prisoner the smell and the feel of him was better than anything he had ever smelt or felt all his life.
As he lay back, the guard began to explore the rest of the prisoner's body, finding areas that gave him the most erotic sensations: his nipples, his testicles, his armpits. The prisoner shook with the sheer ecstasy of what was happening to him. His whole body was aflame with pleasure and abandonment, with no thought of yesterday or tomorrow. He rode a wave of sensation, allowing himself to surrender to the beauty and the randomness of what was happening to him, the benediction bestowed upon him by a stranger.
The next morning, as they walked him to the electric chair, he felt only calm and gratitude. He had been loved for one moment. That was enough. His life was complete. Death would mean nothing to him now. He knew that beyond the veil there was more to come. The guard stood and watched him die, tears streaming down his face. It was his duty to be there that morning. He had been on the night shift as overtime, as a favour to a colleague. It had been as random for him as for the prisoner. Neither of them had a choice. They were both handsome men, elderly but with young eyes. They looked at one another as the current was charged up. Then the hood was placed over the prisoner's head and he was gone, blasted into infinity. It was the only way the guard could have coped, knowing that he had done all he could to save him. |
