Chapter 6: Bad Influence
The goddess braids had lasted almost three weeks before finally surrendering to the constant friction of prison pillows and Angel’s restless sleeping. Kofi had carefully taken them out in Doc’s cell two days prior, his large hands surprisingly deft as he undid his own work, coated the freed curls with a little more of Angel’s precious coconut oil, and pronounced him good to go. Now, Angel’s hair was back to its untamed state, but today it was gathered into two high, bouncy pigtails tied with fraying bits of white string from a commissary sack. They stuck up like fluffy fox ears, making him look even younger than his eighteen years.
He was nestled in Dominic’s lap in Dominic’s cell, the door open to the corridor as usual, but the space inside was crowded. It was a rare gathering of the inner tier’s oldest, most entrenched predators. These were the men who ran things from the shadows, who had been inside so long the outside world was a fading dream. They were Dominic’s peers, not in organization, but in sheer, uncompromising lethality. Respect between them was a tangled web of past violence and unspoken treaties.
Besides Dominic and Angel, there were five others.
Silas, a mountain of a man with a face like a battered ham and eyes that held the flat calm of a deep lake. He’d strangled three men in here with his bare hands, all deemed ‘administrative issues’ by the guards.
Mickey, lean and wiry, covered in cryptic jailhouse tattoos, his fingers permanently stained with ink from his tattoo gun. He was a whispered legend; he’d carved out a rival’s eye with a spoon in the showers and had barely lost commissary privileges for it.
Chains, so called for the heavy links of a tattoo around his neck. He was the quietest, his voice a papery rasp from a shiv that had once opened his throat. He dealt in information, and his information was always bloody.
Hector, with a poet’s face and a butcher’s soul. He was the thinker, the one who planned the retributions that looked like accidents. He was also, in the twisted ecology of the place, the one with the most graphic and creative sexual vocabulary.
And Vick, all nervous energy and sharp, yellowed teeth. He was the chaos agent, the one who enjoyed the mess for its own sake. His loyalty to Dominic was born from a long-ago incident where Dominic had, inexplicably, spared his life.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap coffee brewed on a hot plate, and the underlying tang of male aggression. Cigarettes, legally contraband, were smoked openly here; the guards didn’t check this cell during these gatherings.
Angel was curled sideways in Dominic’s lap, his back against Dominic’s chest, Dominic’s thick arms wrapped loosely around his waist. One of Dominic’s hands absently stroked Angel’s stomach over his thin cotton t-shirt. Angel had a half-eaten candy bar in his hand, melting a little in the stifling heat.
The conversation was a rolling, explicit wave of filth. It was how these men connected, swapping stories of past violent conquests like others would discuss sports.
“...so I had this guy, right, owed me for a pack of smokes he ‘lost,’” Vick was saying, gesticulating with his cigarette. “Pinned him in the laundry. Made him suck my dick while his buddies folded sheets ten feet away. He cried the whole time. Came so hard I almost blacked out.”
Hector snorted, sipping his bitter coffee. “Sentimental. I prefer resistance. More sport. Had a pretty-boy trustee once, thought his work detail pass made him untouchable. Followed him into the plumbing supply closet. He fought. Got his teeth around my cock, bit down.” Hector smiled, a cold, pleasant thing. “I broke his jaw with a pipe wrench before he could break skin. Fucked his throat while he gargled on his own blood. He swallowed every drop when I came.”
Angel listened, nibbling his chocolate. He didn’t look scared. He looked curious, his head tilted, dark blue eyes moving from speaker to speaker as if absorbing a fascinating, if bizarre, lesson. Dominic’s chest was a solid wall of heat behind him, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring drum against Angel’s shoulder blade.
Silas rumbled a laugh. “You two are fucking animals. Simple is better. Get ‘em on their knees, hand on the back of their head, pump until you’re done. No conversation, no fuss.”
“Boring,” Mickey chirped, etching a new design onto his own forearm with a needle and wet ash. “It’s about marking. Making ‘em know. I fucked a snitch up against the chain-link in the yard during a fog watch. Made sure his buddies saw his face pressed against the metal, saw him take it. He transferred out a week later. Mission accomplished.”
Chains just smiled his slit-mouth smile, running a finger along his inked neck.
The talk, inevitably, turned to Angel. It always did. He was the anomaly, the living, breathing doll in their midst, a locus of both protectiveness and dark, unfulfillable fantasy.
“Look at him,” Hector said, his poet’s eyes tracing the line of Angel’s profile. “Sitting there all sweet, listening to us talk about raw dogging sewer rats. You ever think about it, kid? What it would be like if one of us just… took you? Not Reaper. One of us.”
Angel shifted, popping the last of the candy bar in his mouth. He licked his fingers slowly. “I think about sex a lot,” he said, his soft voice cutting through the gruff tones. “My body gets all hot and fuzzy thinking about it. Daddy helps when it gets really bad.”
“Yeah, we know he helps,” Vick leered. “Fingers that pretty little cunt of yours. But that’s just maintenance. Like oiling a engine. I’m talking about a real, proper fucking. A breaking. You’re so tight, Reaper says you’ve never been stretched by a real cock. That true?”
Dominic’s hand stilled on Angel’s stomach. He didn’t tense, but the quality of his stillness changed. It became observant, like a scientist watching a reaction. “He’s intact,” Dominic confirmed, his voice a low rumble against Angel’s ear. “Never even had a toy inside him. Just my fingers.”
A collective, hungry sigh seemed to go around the room. The fantasy was potent: the prison’s untouched Omega, kept pure by its most fearsome Alpha, not for chastity, but as a perverse point of pride.
“Fuck, Dom,” Silas breathed. “The willpower. Having that in your lap every day. Smelling him. I’d have split him open on my cock the first week.”
“Then you’d be dead,” Dominic said evenly, a simple statement of fact. “And he’d be broken. He’s not for that.”
“But you let us talk about it,” Mickey pointed out, not looking up from his self-tattooing. “You let us imagine it. You like hearing it. You like seeing him sit there while we tell him exactly how we’d ruin him.”
Dominic’s fingers began moving again, tracing idle circles. “He’s my son. I like knowing what the monsters in the jungle are thinking. And he should know, too. Knowledge is armor, Angel. Remember that.”
Angel nodded, leaning his head back on Dominic’s shoulder. “I know Uncle Hector would want me to fight so he could hold me down. Uncle Vick would want me to cry. Uncle Silas would just do it really fast and be done. Uncle Mickey would want an audience. And Uncle Chains…” He peered at the quiet man. “You’d probably just watch the others do it first, then take your turn.”
Chairs laughed his paper-rasp laugh, nodding in approval. “Smart kid.”
“See?” Dominic said, a trace of paternal pride in his voice. “He pays attention.”
“He’s also got a world-class set of tits on him for a boy,” Hector remarked clinically. “That shirt’s thin, Dom. We can all see his nipples hardening. He likes this talk. He’s getting wet right now, aren’t you, Angel?”
Angel squirmed a little, a faint blush on his cheeks. He nodded, almost shyly. “Maybe a little.”
“Fuck me,” Vick groaned, adjusting himself. “You’re raising the most perfect little tease in the history of incarceration.”
“It’s not teasing,” Angel protested gently. “It’s just true. My body does what it does. Daddy says I shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”
“And you’re not,” Dominic affirmed, kissing the top of his head. “Your body is beautiful. Powerful. It makes powerful men weak with want. That’s a weapon you’ll never have to use, but it’s good to know you have it.”
The talk spiraled, growing more graphic, more personal. They discussed Angel’s ass, his smooth skin, the specific sounds he might make, the way his cunt would feel—tight, hot, virgin—around a thick Alpha cock. They talked about taking turns, about whether he could handle all of them, about if they came on his face or in his hair. It was degrading, violent, and horrifically intimate. Angel answered questions when asked, his voice never losing its soft, gentle quality, even as the words coming out of his mouth were filthier than the floor.
“Would you suck cock, Angel?” Silas asked bluntly.
“If Daddy told me to,” Angel replied immediately, then considered. “Or if I wanted to. I think I’d like the weight on my tongue. But only if it was clean.”
Hector howled with laughter. “Hygienic! I love it!”
It was Mickey who shifted the gear. He finished his tattoo, wiped the blood and ash, and looked directly at Angel. “Heard a rumor. Heard our sweet little Angel got some new ink down low. That true?”
The room went quiet, all eyes snapping to Dominic and Angel. This was new information.
Dominic’s arm tightened minutely around Angel. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Doc talks when he’s stitching people up. Doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Mentioned keeping something ‘sterile near the pubic region’ after a session with the kid. Put it together. So? He branded? You finally put your name on that pretty pussy?”
A slow smile spread across Dominic’s face. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was possessive, proud, and utterly without mercy. “Something like that.”
“Show us,” Vick demanded, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.
“Daddy?” Angel murmured, looking up at Dominic.
“You want to show them, cucciolo?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping to that private, gentle register he used only with Angel. “It’s your skin. Your choice.”
Angel thought for a moment. He looked at the circle of hard, expectant faces. These were uncles, of a sort. They were part of his world. They protected him in their way, by being under Dominic’s umbrella. Sharing this with them felt, in the warped logic of his life, like an act of family bonding. He nodded. “Okay.”
Dominic looked at the men. “Anyone touches him, you all die where you sit.”
It was understood.
Dominic’s hands moved. He kept Angel cradled back against him with one arm. The other hand went to the waistband of Angel’s standard-issue sweatpants and the thin boxers beneath. In one smooth, practiced motion, he hooked his fingers in both and tugged them down to midthigh.
The cell’s single, harsh light bulb shone directly on Angel’s exposed lower half.
He was completely bare, as always. The smooth, toned plane of his stomach curved into the delicate jut of his hip bones. Below, the thatch of pubic hair was absent, leaving the skin there pale and vulnerable-looking. And there, just above the neat, pink folds of his sex, was the tattoo.
The skin was still slightly pink around the edges, healed but fresh. In elegant, cursive script, it read: Daddy’s property.
Beneath the words, a slim, artistic arrow pointed unerringly down, its tip aiming directly at the entrance to his virgin cunt.
A collective, sharp intake of breath.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Mickey whispered, his artist’s eye drinking in the line work. “That’s… that’s exquisite.”
“It’s a fucking billboard,” Silas rumbled, awe in his voice.
“The arrow,” Hector breathed, leaning so close his coffee-scented breath washed over Angel’s skin. Angel didn’t flinch. “That’s just… perfectly explicit. It leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s a fucking signpost. ‘Put it here.’ Dom, you genius bastard.”
Vick was practically drooling. “Can I… fuck, can I touch it? Just the tattoo, I swear on my life, Dom, just the ink.”
Dominic considered, then gave a single, slow nod.
Vick’s hand, calloused and dirty-nailed, reached out. He didn’t touch Angel’s cunt. He laid a trembling finger on the word ‘Daddy’s’ on Angel’s pubic mound. The skin was warm, soft. Angel let out a tiny sigh, his hips making an involuntary, minute roll.
“He’s so soft there,” Vick mumbled, almost reverent. “And the ink is raised just a little. Fuck.”
One by one, with Dominic’s silent permission, they all leaned in to examine the tattoo. Chains traced the arrow with a cold fingertip. Hector mouthed the words silently. Mickey critiqued the shading.
Angel sat through it, pliant and on display, his breathing a little quicker. The attention was clinical and obscenely sexual all at once. He felt a warm, slick gather between his legs, a wetness he knew they could probably smell.
“This changes the fantasy, you know,” Hector said, sitting back finally, his eyes burning. “Before, it was just about fucking the Reaper’s prized boy. Now? Now it’s about fucking Daddy’s property. It’s about desecrating a label. It’s so much fucking hotter.”
“You get it,” Dominic said, his own voice thick with a dark, paternal lust. He wasn’t aroused in the same way they were; his was a deeper, more complex fire. The ultimate ownership. The ultimate declaration. “Anyone who ever even thinks about it sees that first. They know who they’re really fucking with. It’s not just his body. It’s mine.”
“And you just… look at it?” Silas asked, bewildered. “You don’t… use it?”
“I take care of him,” Dominic corrected, his hand moving from Angel’s stomach down, past the tattoo, his fingers slipping easily through Angel’s slick folds. Angel gasped, his back arching, pushing his small breasts against Dominic’s arm. The men watched, utterly transfixed, as Dominic’s middle finger, thick and blunt, circled Angel’s clit. “See how wet he gets for me? Just from showing off my mark. Just from being good.”
Angel’s head lolled back, a soft moan escaping his lips. “Daddy…”
“He’s close already,” Dominic observed to his audience, as if giving a demonstration. “Always so responsive. So eager.” He pushed one finger inside, just to the first knuckle. The gasp Angel let out was high and sweet. The sound seemed to go straight to the cocks of every man in the room.
Dominic fucked him slowly with that one finger, in and out, the wet, soft sounds obscenely loud in the silent cell. Angel’s pants were around his thighs, his shirt rucked up, his pigtails trembling with each gentle thrust. He was completely surrendered, utterly trusting, a live display of debauched innocence.
“Does he come easy for you, Dom?” Mickey asked, his voice hushed.
“Like a trigger,” Dominic murmured, curling his finger. Angel cried out, his body seizing, his cunt clenching rhythmically around the invading digit. His orgasm was quick and intense, a shuddering wave that left him limp and panting against Dominic’s chest. The scent of his release, sweet and musky, flooded the small space.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was Angel’s ragged breathing and the slick slide of Dominic’s finger as he gently worked him through the aftershocks.
Finally, Vick let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I need to go fucking choke one out in my cell. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”