The Last Photograph
by Wrestlr
5.
I investigated the gate of my cage. Now that I could move my arms—now that I’d done some pushups as best I could in the too-short cage, and some crunches and other exercises to get the blood flowing and muscle tone coming back—I needed to investigate the latch. I had to be silent, because I’d already learned Mick would sometimes be nearby without me hearing him.
I heard someone crying softly in the darkness. The naked youth, whimpering.
I whispered, “Hey. You okay?”
Silence, then a shaky voice, “Who’s there?”
My name is Filth. “My name is Peter. I’m Paul’s brother.”
“You’re the guy who jumped me, right? Back at the ruins? Are you really Paul’s brother?”
“Yeah.” Meaning, all of the above. “I came looking for him,” I added, which explained how I came to be there. The details could wait.
He told me his name was Justin. He told me about how Lucas showed them the ruins, then some other guys jumped them. They drugged Paul and the rest. Justin got away, hid in the jungle. He was terrified of the jungle—Lucas had told them stories about all the jaguars and snakes and poisonous frogs and spiders that could kill a man in seconds—so he stuck near the ruins. Sometimes men came back to look for him, but he always got away. Sometimes they left food, but he never touched it, fearing it was drugged. Instead, he learned to find fruit in the jungle. He thought the isolation was bad—maybe he went a little crazy. He didn’t know where this place was, but the trail on which Lucas had led them to the ruins came from the south, while the men looking for him always came and went to the northwest. He thought the ruins were nearby, but just a drop site, a distraction.
I asked if he had seen Paul. No.
He asked what I thought was going on. I said I thought we were being subjected to psychological torture—I did not say brainwashed. All he said to that was, “Shit.”
After a while, he asked if I knew why. I didn’t have an answer for that.
From what he told me, they hadn’t bound him like they had me. He was just a college student—they weren’t afraid of him. He said he had quickly figured out the latch and kept sneaking out of his cage. He had tried to escape but the room door was always locked. They weren’t much worried about us getting out of the cages since we couldn’t get out of the room.
I heard something metallic rattle, heard a door creak open from the direction of Justin’s voice. I heard something shuffle closer, something bumped my cage, groping, searching quickly. Justin’s whisper came from right outside. “Can I come in? I really need ...”
“Okay.”
He worked the gate of my cage open and slipped inside. We sat cross-legged, side by side, knees barely touching. In the darkness that slight contact was how we confirmed the other’s continued presence.
They had moved him along much faster, had only kept him in darkness for less than a day. They had a drug, like the spray they’d used on us at the ziggurat. It numbed the mind, made him feel cooperative and docile. They used it to make sure he was controllable, followed orders.
They had technology, a chair, a screen—it assaulted the brain with images. He said it was like some science fiction movie where subliminal messages turned people into programmed puppets. Justin said the images hammered away at his head until he couldn’t think straight. The technicians weren’t pleased, though—they said the normal programming would not work on him, something about his brain—and then they gave him a drug that knocked him out. When he woke up, they had installed this band, this “halo,” around his head. He said it whispered things into his head, made him feel like a zombie, unsure which thoughts were even his.
That part sounded weird. I decided to ignore that. I touched the metal band, though. It was on tight and didn’t budge. “Ow,” Justin protested when my fingers strayed too close to the bandage I’d seen at the back of his skull. “It’s okay—just real sore.”
He leaned against me. I put an arm around his shoulder and listened to his sniffles and small sobs in the darkness.
You have to remember who you are, I told him. No matter what they do to you. Remember who you are. Hold on to that. Sooner or later, we’ll get free. We’ll get Paul. We’ll get out of there. Just hold on. Wait for an opportunity. Be ready to take it.
His arms circled my chest and he hugged me the way a child would. At around twenty years old, Justin was nearly still a child in some ways. I understood fear, and I understood the need for comfort. After a moment of tenseness, I allowed him to hold himself against me.
At some point, his body shifted, his head and shoulder found my lap. My hand rested on his shoulder. He rocked his body back and forth, trying to comfort himself. The slide of his shaven scalp against the base of my cock felt ... awkward and interesting at the same time. My cock hardened. I was glad the lights were out and he couldn’t see, but surely he felt it when he rocked his skull back and forth and brushed my boner. It felt good. Mick’s violation of my ass had not been sexual to me, but my body responded to the warmth of Justin’s skin. He couldn’t see my embarrassment in the dark. Good.
I leaned back against the wall of my cage, enjoying the simple human contact, until I felt Justin lift his head, turning his face downward. His shoulder moved. He found my stiff cock with his hand. That woke me up from a half-doze and I froze. But in a moment of weakness, I didn’t tell him to stop. He pulled on my dick shaft—a slow, nursing grip, up and down, slow and sweet. I didn’t move. Justin did all the work.
“Shit, you’re big,” he sighed. I do have a big cock. His appreciation made me proud. “So fucking big, just like Paul.” I refused to think about how he knew what my brother’s erection was like.
He kept sliding up and down, going slowly. Long, even strokes. I felt his body vibrate as he stroked himself with his other hand, going faster and harder than he stroked me. I felt his hand clamp tighter around my cock. He sighed. Something hot and liquid hit my leg. His cum, I realized. I’d never had anyone’s cum touch me except my own.
Too late to worry about that. My own balls were suddenly ready. “I’m—”
“Shh.”
His lips found the tip and wrapped around the head, and my load exploded into him. My body bucked up from the narrow cage floor as the sensation exploded all through me. I needed this. My orgasm was intense.
When it was over, my cock softening, I felt his tongue brush around the head of it in the darkness. I turned my head the other way. I whispered, “I think you should go now.”
Justin said, “Okay ... Thank you.”
I should thank you, I thought, but said nothing.
He pulled himself away me. My cage gate rattled. A moment later, Justin’s rattled.
At some point, Justin dozed. I heard his soft snoring. I closed my eyes and slept too.