Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins

headed in the direction of the showers, his towel draped over one shoulder. The cell block’s shower room was identical to the one in his old high school, with a dozen individual fixtures and a poured concrete floor. Normally prisoners had to wait in line, with ablutions limited to three minutes per man, and those toward the end of the line being forced to settle for luke-warm water, but since he was the only person in the shower room, there would be plenty of hot water for a change.
    He was washing the oil and asphalt residue from his hair when he was struck in the chest and knocked back against the tiled wall of the shower. As he opened his eyes to see who’d punched him, the soap from the shampoo poured into them, effectively blinding him.
    â€œBend over and crack yore Daddy some brown-eye, punk,” Mother snarled, flashing a predator’s grin that was all teeth and menace.
    â€œFuck you!” Skinner snapped, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
    â€œThat’s exactly what I intend to do,” replied Mother as he drove his fist against the side of Skinner’s head.
    For a brief second the world was without light, sound or scent, and when Skinner regained his senses, he found himself lying on the floor of the shower, the sound of running water filling his ears.
    â€œRoll him over on his back,” Mother ordered as he opened his pants. “I want him to see me while I’m doin’ it.”
    Skinner tried to shout for help, but Rope was already on top of him and quickly shoved a pair of bunched-up briefs in his mouth.
    Mother gave himself a few swift, angry yanks, as if his dick was made of leather instead of living flesh, until he was pumped full. Skinner could see red and black flames inked along its length, like the customizing on a hotrod engine cowling. “Hold him still, damn it! How do you expect me to plug him if he’s wiggling around?” he growled as he spat into his free hand.
    Rope punched Skinner hard enough to crack the back of his head against the floor. For a second everything went gray and blurred for a few seconds—until the pain of Mother shoving between his buttocks brought him back to himself. It was like he was being torn in two, the pain increasing with each thrust of his attacker’s hips He screamed, but most of it was muffled by the gag blocking his mouth. Tears of agony and shame filled his eyes, streaming from his eyes to his ears.
    This isn’t happening.
    â€œLook at me!” Suddenly Mother’s face was looming over his, breathing hot, putrid air down on him.
    Skinner squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.
    â€œLook at me when I’m fucking you, punk!”
    This isn’t happening to me. I’m not really here. When I wake up it’ll have been nothing but a bad dream. A nightmare.
    Nothing more.
    â€œI said look at me!” Mother’s fist smashed into Skinner’s nose, breaking it. Blood flooded his sinuses and began backing up into his throat. He tried to spit it out, but the gag was in the way.
    I’m going to die. He’s going to let me choke to death on my own blood. I’m just meat to them. It doesn’t matter if I’m alive or dead. I’m just something to use and throw away. Meat. Meat.
    Mother laughed and pointed to Skinner’s rapidly inflating penis. “Hey, Rope! He’s gettin’ off on it! The punk’s a faggot! Ain’t that right, pretty boy?”
    Skinner made a choking noise in the way of a reply. Mother’s smile abruptly disappeared, to be replaced by something resembling concern—but not for his victim.
    â€œHey—something’s wrong here.”
    Skinner’s limbs suddenly began to jerk about so violently Rope could no longer hold him down. Mother began to curse and tried to disengage himself, but was unable to pull free.
    â€œSweet Jesus, help me!” he exclaimed in a panicky voice. “I’m