Once they were counted they were herded into the grey pustule of a building. At least he wouldn’t have to look at the ugly motherfucker if he was on the inside of it. The guards jostles and sniped, like they were pissed off that his and the other prisoner’s legs were hobbled. Or like they’d ‘forgotten’ and chose to believe he had chosen to walk old-man slow just to jerk their chain.<br/><br/>It reminded him a lot about the first harsh weeks he had joined his crew. The hazings had been more lethal than the drug runs and drive-bys.<br/><br/>He really didn’t like the idea that this would be every fucking day. At least he wasn’t getting the sort of attention Pretty was. More than half the guards were watching that one, drool almost running down their chins. If he wanted to pull any shit, it was going to be with that boy standing at the other end of the room, that was for sure.<br/><br/>Sure enough, the beaten little bitch was getting searched first. He had a very designer looking body under the bruises. Muscle that was made by working out had a different look to it than hard earned muscle. It was even, fucking sculpted. Even his ass looked like it had come from a fucking catalogue.<br/><br/>Seeing the guy bend over and just take the guard’s fingers with just one little grunt – it made him feel a burning rush of anger. They were going to do that to him, Santos. Fuck.<br/><br/>He looked away finally, his jaw clenched as he tried to keep his head. It was meant to be his signature, wasn’t it? Not stepping wrong when the world was on fire and bullets were flying. So long as he fucked knew what to do he could fucking do it.<br/><br/>Only difference here was no one was telling him what to do. He’d gotten himself off the streets by himself. Made it rich. So – here and now, he had to… had to not lose it.<br/><br/>The bruised Pretty was squealing at being hosed when Santos’ felt a guard’s baton push the small of his back. “You next, fucker.” He stiffened. He wasn’t next in line, he thought he’d have more time to calm down – the baton smacked his hip sharply at his hesitation. Pissed off, he shuffled forwards to the guards in the centre of the room. They unlocked his ankles and wrists, and he took a moment to twist his injured shoulder, the journey leaving it feeling stiff. Then he undressed, glad his civy’s weren’t his. Seeing his own clothes thrown away would have gotten under his skin.<br/><br/>“Lean and spread ‘em,” ordered the guard with the rubber glove. Santos slid a glance towards the bin, trying to see if there was a used glove in there. He’d not kept an eye of the man, he had no idea if it was the same one used of the cocksucker or if he was lucky enough to get a fresh one. “On the table, move it convict!” The second guard lifted his baton, but Santos was already bracing himself with one arm.<br/><br/>Despite trying his hardest to think of nothing but keeping still, he twitched when he felt hands on his ass. He twitched again when cold, gel coated fingers pressed into his hole then again when the digit slid deeper. The jammed so deep into him it felt like he was trying to work his fucking fist in there. He didn’t know what he was doing to keep himself from turning around and tearing the motherfucker’s face off  but the effort was making tremors run through him and his ass clench. “Goddamn it,” the guard hissed in a tone that was far too fucking breathless.<br/><br/>The fingers pulled out fast and that was almost as uncomfortable as them going in. “Turn.” Getting straight wasn’t pleasant, and not going after the guard with the glove was just like trying not to slap Tina when she was whining about going to visit her mother.<br/><br/>The look on his face almost sent the guard back a step. Santos couldn’t stop himself give a snort of amusement. The guard looked pissed as a pitbull too dumb to climb up the right end of a bitch – shit, wrong sort of metaphor.<br/><br/>“Open your fucking mouth or I’ll break your teeth,” the guard hissed. Santos knew he’d won this, so opened his mouth like a good con, the rough search making him gag. He didn’t even care the fucker hadn’t changed gloves, he felt better than he had in weeks.<br/><br/>Once every bit of his mouth had been jabbed and scrapped at and he was sure the edges of his mouth were torn, he was shoved into a nook and powder thrown over him. The water was freezing and pummelled him, sucking out every bit of warmth he had and driving ice into both sides of his gun wound. “Fuck!” he snarled, the torment seeming to go on forever before finally, it ended and he was pulled out, and shoved at another table, where some other guards – he was too disorientated to pay much attention to them – gave him some clothes.<br/><br/>He got his pants on with a little struggle, but the t-shirt was too much for his shoulder. He got his head and good arm through, but he couldn’t bend his arm to get it through the armhole. He struggled with it for a few minutes, then hissed out a string of curses before tugging it off and putting his crapped-out arm first, his good arm and head going next.<br/><br/>He dropped onto the bench away from the pussy to watch the rest of the convicts get sorted, his legs splayed before him and his hips at an angle, his ass still feeling uncomfortable from the guard’s sick poking.<br/>