Jailbait (Boyxboy)

Chapter 18- Training

Chapter 18

Training

No matter how many times I told myself this wasn't happening, it was, indeed, happening. No matter how hard I squeezed my sore eyes shut, I knew when I opened them that I wouldn't be able to see anything except the lonely darkness. I would reposition myself in an effort to be comfortable and my face would brush off the harsh, itchy carpet. Now, my broken bed, flattened pillow and winter duvet seemed like a rich man’s luxury rather than an average, everyday simplicity.

My leg was most likely broken, again. Unlike last time, the limb ceased to heal naturally like it did before. Looking back, I couldn't even remember how I caused my leg to break before. Sid must have been involved that I was almost positive. Then I remembered my ‘father’ and how he beat me with a stick afterwards. How my beta showed up mid-show and expressed his utmost concern for me. I remembered vaguely how he recommended spanking as a form of corporal punishment before leaving with his unwanted naked-me jokes.

I’d been beaten, bruised, assaulted but never have I had a person spitting on my eye before gagging me and sending me back to sleep for the night. Sure I’ve had guy’s cocks rammed down my throat before. I didn’t get my nickname because I’m a nice person. Jailbait. I got the nickname when I was around thirteen years old. Shortly after puberty kicked in when most wolves either learned to submit or dominate. I was one of the lucky people who learned to do both, strictly speaking. I must have stood out like a sore thumb. I was born with red streaks but over the years they multiplied. Like a lion growing his mane, my hair became more significant as the years went by. Mufasa, now that’s a name I could get used to.

No one protected me when a boy who was accused to be jailbait became the main topic of many people’s discussions. It made me sick. But back then, I was ashamed of my nickname and ashamed of who I was as a wolf. I saw people calling me jailbait as if they were screaming at me that I was a whore.  For most people, it was the same thing.

Light shone through the vent in the door like a spotlight shining directly on me. The door was yanked open with a creak and a person’s shadow blocked me from the bright light. I looked up at the figure and vaguely recognized Emment’s distinctive (scowling) face. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt but the briefcase he was holding in his hand added an element of formality to his outfit.

“Rise and shine.” He sneered.

“Good morning to you too.” I replied. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at him.

“Get up.” He snapped.

“I’d rather stay-” Emment yanked me up by my arm and threw me out in front of him. He slammed the door behind him. Not a morning person, I see. He kept a firm grip on my hair as I limped in front of him. He pulled on it in the direction he wanted me to go and I lamentably obliged.

“Have a good sleep?” He asked. He placed a hand on my hip and guided me around the corner like I was going to lose control of myself and walk straight into the wall. This guy is talented because with everything he does he manages to belittle me every time. He led me back to the room that I had woken up in yesterday. The musty smell of urine hit me as soon as Silas opened the door. He flicked a switch and a light bulb hanging from a wire illuminated the room. He kicked the wooden chair into the corner aggressively and it landed with a ‘clank’ against the wall. He sighed before turning to face me.

He knelt down and opened his suitcase. He rummaged around inside before slamming it shut again. He held up a bundle of fabric in front of my nose.

“Strip.” He commanded.

“No.” He slapped me hard across my face before I could even finish the word. I gritted my teeth as the dull pain spread through the muscles in my face.