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Ravenswood
by Emile
2009. This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities, which may not be legal, or safe, or even feasible, in real life.
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Ravenswood was once a noble Second Empire mansion, oozing grandeur from the Atlantes grappling with the weight of the porch to the eagles guarding the apex.
But by the time I inherited it, the neighbourhood was shitty, the roof sagging and the stonework peeling. Instead of consigning my meagre caseworker wage to its upkeep, I converted it to a boarding house - well halfway house for the dozens of troubled young guys I'd formerly had to look after. I converted every spare room to a bedroom, so aside from my own, I had 9 rooms, and with "two beds to a room, no exception", took 18 wards in my care.
I guess I started out okay, but temptation was everywhere. Maybe I cut food bills a little to fix the roof, or neglected to pass on their clothing allowance to pay the rates, or just didn't replace the linen or fix the lights, anyway my wards became older, meaner - the hopeless cases. The caseworkers still sent me the cuter, muscular ones (I still had friends in the system), but they were roughnuts, angry and desperate sadistic motherfuckers. I guess I became more militant to keep them in line, and soon I had a rigid system - four sergeants in the two bedrooms flanking mine kept tyrannical order over the other 'cadets', and my rule was absolute, and they stayed mostly because they had no choice.
Then they sent me Zac. Zac was different from the others. Blonde and built, a cute, smart football jock, freshman ivy leaguer before his rich parents dodged the law and left the country in a media storm - without him. He was left alone and peniless, and somehow all his great friends evaporated as fast as his house, and college tuition. They picked him up on the street 6 months later, barely 20, finding him repeatedly pack raped by the gang that had been keeping him. They'd broken him good, not just physically, his arsehole punched open like a flower from repeated brutal fucks, but mentally too. He flinched whenever someone mentioned the past, and barely spoke above a murmur. I don't know if it was his vulnerability, or whitebread looks, but I broke all the long held rules, fuelled by lust, moving straight into my bedroom. I got another boy to fill the vacant bed, and spent a month fucking him stupid, and gave him freedom in return. Unlike the other boys, he showered in my bathroom with its own hot water, bought nice clothes, mooched about the house instead of earning money outside. The boys hated him, I could see, but dared not lift a finger against my 'favourite'.
There was something about him that made you like him less over time. Maybe it was the knowledge his life was all coke-and-tails parties before he'd come here. Or his cocky swagger, the counterswing of his tight arse and his broad shoulders as he sauntered down the hall. His clean, cut cock, plump and perfect, resting on two goose-egg balls also didn't help. But even after months, he still flinched when I touched him, craved hugs when he touched me, acted conflicted, needy and withdrawn. It slowly dawned on me, fucking his arse, that he wasn't confused, or in love, but he took it as some kind of payment, or punishment, for the security I offered. For all I knew (and now suspected), he wasn't even in to guys. It irritated me, and I responded in kind - the fucks were rougher, and I made him spend his days fixing the roof. I told him he could have the attic as his bedroom if he finished it, and for the next few months, it became his project, the pace accelerating as fast as my passion cooled. In fact, my irritation was almost hatred by the time he finally finished. He'd been working at it 18 hours a day, with the shoestring budget I set, and the room was cold and spartan, but less chilly than around me. With it, the last of his privileges - the hot showers - ended, but he took it in his stride, figuring he'd adjust to the pecking order somehow. I couldn't wait to see him fight for the meagre hot water at 7am with the others, almost willing him to get the worst of it, not realising yet just how far I wanted to see him sink. But I did make one last contribution - and the most important - reminding him of the rule - two to a room - that meant we'd soon be getting a new lodger to share it with him.
I wanted Zac's roommate to be mean. I said it before I realised it, to my old friend Todd. He grinned and gave me a name, sending me to one of the toughest juvies in town, really a prison for minors. The candidate - Charles - broke all the rules. First, he was 17, not even an adult. He was much rougher than I was used to, sadistic even - having repeatedly been in solitary for violence. Todd told me his was the slow kind - he liked to break kids. Lastly, he was coal black - hard midnight muscles that rippled under the skin. I didn't go in much for Africans, had avoided them so far, but I decided to drive out and meet him for myself. Sure enough, when he came into the interview room, he lived up to Todd's description. He was like a panther, lithe, slick and dark, and he had away of slinking into the room , straddling the chair with his muscular arms crossed over the back that looked hungry. His clothes - a body hugging black singlet and soft shorts - just made him seem more animalistic, more feral. Or perhaps it was the intense stare, like you were lunch.
I began explaining to the lounging black teen how the house worked, that he'd have the chance to 'reform'. He seemed dismissive, rocking back and forth on the chair just enough to strain the metal and loosen the back. As well as slowly breaking the chair, his arms stretched out and back as he rocked, making his chest thrust up and giving me a glimpse of his hairy armpit, glistening from exertion. It was all deliberate and manipulative - slowly breaking me by catching me out, as surely as he was slowly breaking the chair. He had trouble written all over him. I checked myself and called his bluff - I stared him straight in the eyes and in a low voice, inaudible to the guards outside, I told him "Yeah, I'd like to fuck you, there are plenty of guys I've fucked before, and don't think I don't get away with it. I know you're a predator, worse than me, and that's precisely why I'm in here. Here's the deal, you wanna act like king shit, and have fun, fuck the consequences. Well I'll give you that, so long as you don't fuck it up with me. I promise you, I've even got your victim all lined up...." And when I saw the glint in his eyes - mischevous and evil - I knew I'd make an exception for him.
I'd brought Zac to meet him, and he shifted about awkwardly in the soundproof visitors room, hands in his pockets, trying to his big frame inconspicuous. Charles was dressed respectably (for him), in tee and jeans, but there was no hiding the animal, you could still make out the muscles sliding under the shirt as he stuck his arm out to shake our hands, and Zac's eyes were almost glued to his crotch, generously filled out by his package. I'd bet he fluffed himself just for the occasion. He played the game well, calling me Sir, saying how much it meant for a "poor bro' like him to get a chance wi' us...", but this time there were guards around, so appearances mattered. After some smalltalk, I mentioned he'd be bunking with Zac. He jumped up, grabbing Zac tightly to him, with his arms around Zacs. It looked brotherly enough, I guess, but his arms dropped as he leaned back, and as he mumbled something about 'being bros', I noticed how he still held their crotches together, his cock unmistakably snaking down his thigh as it pressed into Zacs. Prolonging the moment, I told them I wanted a photo. It was priceless, they stood close, shoulder to shoulder - I could still see that Charles had thrown his arm around Zac, not holding his waist like normal, but holding his arse - his thumb and forefinger extended along his crack, the fingertip grazing his balls through the fabric. Zac bucked and shifted, but Charles held him firm, grinning toothily.
Charles had to get signed out by the parole board, so after the touching meeting, I said my farewell, gave my endorsement to the guards and we left. As we drove back to the house, Zac begged me to find someone else. He didn't fess up to the fondling, but knowing my bias, called him a black thug, a thief. In mock indignation, I told him off. "You should know better than to be so possessive - in fact I think you should share your things with him, show him what sharing means." Sure enough when the muscular young stud arrived at my door, the first thing I told him, in front of all the men, was that not only would he share Zac's bedroom, but he could share everything of his. "Really, Zac, in the spirit of sharing, you shouldn't deny your new friend anything." Charles smiled really wide at the word 'anything'.
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