I feel so helpless. Helpless and mad. I'm not used to it and I don't like it, but I feel it more and more often lately. I don't know what he needs. I'm not even sure he needs something, but if he does I don't think I can give it to him. I can help him deal with the pain but I can't make it go away. This is not my doing, and it makes me incredibly angry. I know this doesn't make any sense but I really want to break something. I can't fix this. I can inflict pain on him. I can tell him he's a slut and he's a toy, I can tie him up, I can choke and gag him, I can spank him until he cries. I can humiliate him, make him beg, leave marks on his skin. It won't help. I look down at him, passed out on the bed. He doesn't look peaceful. His hair is still damp from our shower, a little darker than it usually is and wetting the pillow. His breathing is hard on him, I can see his shirtless chest raising and falling in an uneven pace. He lost some weight lately. No wonder. He gets most of his calories from alcohol and most of his energy through his nose but I can't blame him for turning to drinking and snorting, can I? He learned that from me. So I do what I can. And right now it sums in turning him on his side, so he won't choke on his own vomit, and spoon him all night, so I'll notice if he stops breathing. So that's what I do. I lie behind him, on the side of our bed that is usually his and pull him closer to me, making sure his face is turned down. I play with his hair and concentrate on how his skin feels against mine and on my breathing. If we'll stay like this for long enough he'll catch on my breathing pace, it'll calm him a bit. You'd think I'm the expert at soothing Justin by now, considering what we both put him through. It's a package deal, really, comes with the job. It's my responsibility to take him high and bring him back in one piece. But usually I'm the one who breaks him, I'm the reason for his tears, so I know what to do to fix everything and make it all better, to make it all worth it. This time I don't know how. Maybe that's why he wanted us to play earlier tonight so badly, he probably wanted some control over what's going on. But I couldn't, not when he's like this, not when I'm so pissed at him. He's dull, numb, self-destructive. We'll need to go very far for it to work, and I can't trust him to use his safe word when he's like this. He'll let me hurt him for real. It will relive his pain and he'll feel better, and I'll think that maybe it's ok because he looks fine and I'm not so angry anymore, and when he'll wake up the morning after he'll see the marks and have a mental breakdown. We're not taking that road. I can't allow that. So I tried to make him better the old way by saying the right words and touching the right spots. I don't think it worked. I feel his breathing slowing down against my chest, getting more even and deeper. That's good. I adjust his head under my chin, smoothing the covers around us. It gets a little too warm, but that's what he need's so that's what we're having.

I got off work very late today. I finished my evening meetings after ten, and then I had to go over some numbers with Ted because something wasn't adding up. Long story short, Schmidt saved the day with his magical accounting skills and his dreadful attention to details, and a generous dose of whining. It was long past 1 am when I finally got to the loft, only to discover Justin wasn't there. There were no take out leftovers, which means he didn't even bother to eat. Again. I remember feeling my heart sinking, knowing I'm facing some kind of a mental mess and not for the first time the last few days. Then I started getting angry. He's not listening to me, he refuses to accept things as they are and his version of dealing is mainly self- destructive, not to mention he let this happen. It scares me to no end. I didn't waste much time and drove straight to the bar I found him in the night before. I hate that place, we never go there together. He goes there when he's really mad at me or when he want's drugs he can't afford or I won't let him use. I found him on the bar, his shirt long lost, his head in his hands, ignoring the commotion around him. I put my hand on my shoulder and immediately I knew he was beyond high. It took him about a minute to notice I was touching him. When he finally did, he turned his face up and the familiar blue was surrounded with red.

"Brian? What are you doing here?" he dragged the words, like he does when he had too much to drink. He looked so out of it and so lost that any resentment and anger I had just evaporated. Those will come back later. I ran my hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.

"I came to find you". I did my best to sound calm.

"Why?" he sounded confused. I didn't know what he took but I was sure it was too much for him, and he smelled like alcohol.

"You weren't home"

"No…" He thought it over for a moment, his gaze drifting away for my face to the lights on the ceiling.

"Where's your shirt?" I asked mainly to keep him talking, as I put his hand over my shoulder and helped him off the stool. I didn't get an answer. I left a 100 dollar bill on the counter, even though I doubt he needed to order anything by himself. I started steering Justin to the exit, helping him to stay on his feet. Before we stepped outside I put my jacket over him. It was cold tonight, I don't need him sick on top of everything else. He cooperated but I didn't think he knew what was going on. When we got to my jeep I opened the back door and laid him down, his legs swinging over the edge of the seat. There was nothing I wanted more than to get him back to the loft, but I needed some information first. I got in with him, putting his head in my lap, giving him a few minutes to sober up, hoping the cool air will do the trick. It didn't. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling of my jeep, his left hand's fingers scratching his right arm, drawing blood. He used to do that a lot after the bashing, when he was mad at his hand for not working properly. Another bad habit that re- emerged recently. He looks about 12 years old with his messed up hair and skinny arms and that makes everything worse.

"Hey" I said, trying to bring him back to reality. I took his left hand away from his arm and held it in my hand. I don't want him to do that. He turned his face to me and smiled a smile that broke my heart.

"Hey Brian". He sounded genuinely happy and a little surprised.

"What did you take, Justin?" I asked because I needed to know. I had to assess the damage, to know for sure what I was dealing with, so I could decide what to do next. He looked at me confused for a few seconds, and then I could see the understanding downing on his face. It was almost comical, but no one was laughing.

"Everything!" he said with a wide smile, spreading his arms happily to demonstrate how much is "everything". I turned my face away, not wanting him to see how mad I was. Everything means whatever's cheap and whatever you can get for being blond and shirtless and too friendly, Justin's area of expertise, especially when he wishes he was dead. I wanted to break his neck. I turned him on his side so I could look at his back. I spotted teeth marks on his shoulder, ones I didn't leave there. He won't be happy when he sees those tomorrow. I hope it happened when he was sober enough to insist on a condom. I rolled him on his back again. I needed to see his face, to know if he's lying to me or too high to remember.

"Did you fuck someone tonight?" I knew the answer but I asked anyway, to evoke his memory.

"Yeah, there was this guy. He gave me a pill and then he fucked me" he informed me in an even, detached tone. I started stroking his hair while I sent my hand to the front pockets of his jeans. He carries two condoms on him at all times. I taught him well. I only found one.

"Did you use a condom, Justin?"

"Ah-ha. He didn't want too but I knew you would be pissed at me so I made him". I wrote a mental note to myself to check for blood on his underwear when we get back to the loft. I didn't like those teeth marks, and I didn't like his answer. If me being mad is the only thing that's stopping him from fucking around bareback we're in a very bad situation. He examined my face for a long moment.

"You're not happy" he decided, sounding kind of disappointed. I kept stroking his hair, not answering.

"I'm not being a good boy for you". His voice broke. I thought he was going to cry. I can't lie to him, he knows, so I didn't say anything.

"I'm so sorry Brian." I was right. Tears in his red, pupil dilated blue eyes.

"It's ok". We both knew it wasn't, but I lied anyway. I gave him my hand and he held it for a while, crying a non- satisfying dry cry, the kind you have when you cried too much, or when you too dull to really cry. It just faded away after a minute.

"Let's go back home, ok? We can talk about this later"

"No"

"Yes"

"I don't want to talk about it later"

"Do you want to talk about it now?"

"No! No more talking. Pleas Brian, no more talking"

"You can't go on like this, Justin"

"I want the belt". He hates the belt.

"Later"

"Now"

"No"

"Yes"

"NO"

"Why not?"

"We have rules Justin, remember? You're high, we're not doing this."

"I don't care". Of course he doesn't, that's exactly why we have them. I didn't answer. Reasoning with him is useless at this stage. He turned quiet for a while, mad at me for not giving him what he wants.

"I went to talk to him". Yes, he did. That's why we ended up where we were, because he didn't listen to me and went to talk to his asshole father. I knew it would make things worse, but he thought he could fix things, and he was wrong. We had endless discussions over this, all of them resulting in me wanting to punch someone and him feeling worse.

"I know" I said softly, knowing there was nothing I could say that would make this less painful.

"There was nothing in the mailbox. I had to". I heard that so many times the last few days. Every time he tells me he does it because he thinks it would help him get over it. It never does. This blow was well aimed and too harsh, directed exactly to all of his soft spots. I don't think he could ever completely get past it, but he'll learn to cope. He has no choice, I won't let him become one of those self- loathing fags you read about when they overdose in some backroom somewhere.

"He told me…"

"Don't think about that, Justin. It doesn't matter anymore." He told him a lot of things, a lot of hard, ugly things. All of them phrased the way that will hurt him the most.

"I can't" he started tearing up again, his desperation clear in his voice.

"Sure you can." You must.

"I want the belt."

"If you still want it tomorrow I'll beat you so hard you won't sit for days". I meant it.

"Promise?"

"Promise." I got a smile. He got quiet again, wondering off in his drug induced thoughts.

"I wish we had some chees". Now was my turn to want to cry. This is not Justin being all silly because he's high, this is Justin's lame attempt to fake it so I'll think everything is fine. Which means nothing isn't. I just kept playing with his hair and decided to play along.

"You hate chees". He stared at me.

"But sometimes you just need some chees, Brian". He said very quietly, avoiding my eyes. He was so onto me. I wish I was better at lying to him. This will register in his blond head as another failure, and he can't deal with those right now, and I would really like to come home sometime soon to find him scribbling in his sketch pad or pissed at me because I bought the wrong kind of cereal instead of searching for him at random bars.

"Let's go back to the loft, see if we have any". I didn't get a response.

He dozed off a couple of times when I drove us to the loft. He looked terribly depressed, wearing my jacket and leaning against the window with his eyes closed. I wanted to hug him so hard his ribs would crack, still mad at him for doing this to himself. I reached for his hand and held it, but he didn't press back. This is all his father's fault. I hope he chokes and dies. And Jenifer…. I'm afraid there is nothing that can happen to her that'll satisfy me. It amazes me every time how those two useless breeders managed to create something as delightful as Justin, and it amazes me even more that they are so oblivious to hurting him. His father is getting married, you see, to this younger and blonder version of Jennifer named Minnie. Beforehand, the Taylors and the Richardsons are having a get together in Craig's parents' mansion in West Virginia so that everyone could start hating on each other before the magical union of the families. Craig and Minnie even hand wrote the invitations on a pinkish perfumed paper and sent them through mail. Jenifer got one. Molly got one. Guess who didn't get one. He found out the hard way. Jenifer called to ask him if he needed a ride to Virginia. Justin, of course, had no idea what she was talking about. Instead of immediately hanging up on Justin and turning to roast Craig's ass she told him what's up and that the invitation probably will show up tomorrow. He knew it wouldn't, his father never even bothered to introduce him to that woman, or to acknowledge his existence, but he refused to believe it. He checked the mailbox obsessively a few days and kept discussing this with his mother through the phone. And Jenifer? She was going to attend either way, refusing to talk to Craig about it because "I'm really not in a position to interfere with their guest list, honey".

And then it all sank in. That his father doesn't consider him as a part of the family, that his grandparents don't want to see him and most of all- that his mother dear, that supposedly was on his side, prefers etiquette and manners over his benefit. He thought she made peace with him being himself, but I guess she didn't. And it hurt. I know he took it really hard, I was there and got to see his face when he realized what happens. He hanged up the phone, a blank expression on his face and just sat there on the couch, staring at nothing and not responding for about ten minutes. Then he looked up at me in disbelief, so helplessly looking for instructions for how to fix this. I felt like someone punched me. There is no fixing this. There is only dealing. I sat next to him and held him hard until he responded. He didn't hug me back, he just sort of melted in my arms, his breath starting to quicken. I know how that feels. I've been there, and I was much older than him and much more resentful towards my family to begin with. His trust was shuttered completely. He didn't know it was that bad. He knew his father did not approve of him and they weren't exactly speaking but he thought that maybe, in time, his father would come around. He wasn't expecting to be written off like that. I think the worst part for him was Jenifer's cooperation with all of this shit. She was supposed to be on his side, but she is going to attend anyway. He'll probably forgive her sometime in the future, but I won't. And then he clutched my shirt and cried into my chest. It was an all- consuming sort of weeping, and it wasn't over for a long time. All I could do was to be there and hold him, and that's what I did.

When I woke up the next day I found him lying next to me, staring at the ceiling, a cigarette in his hand and I could see he had some kind of a plan. I knew it was bad, because I know Justin and his way of thinking. He refused to accept what happened and being the fundamental optimist that he is he thought he could change that and everything would be good again. Because in Justin's mind the world evolves in a cause and effect pattern. He can't be getting this punishment, he didn't do anything wrong. This is some sort of mistake, a mistake that will easily be amended, all he needs to do is to reason with his dad. I can't get used to that. Through our time together I witnessed time after time how my little blond pixie is scampering around happily, positively sure that nothing bad can happen to him because he's doing nothing wrong, only to get crushed time after time under some asshole's hill. He doesn't understand people are cruel just because they can, they don't need a reason. So he went to see him, against my advice. He had to, he couldn't avoid that. The crush was inevitable, all I could do was to watch silently and collect the shiny pieces.

The next day I come home only to find Justin wasn't there. I wasn't worried, I knew this was coming. I thought I knew what was going on. You can't blame me for thinking that, after all I watched him going through more than one meltdown. I assumed he went to talk to his father, it didn't go well, so he went to blow off some steam in the back room somewhere. No big deal. He'll come back all giggling and stumbling and smelling like vodka and other people, telling me his father is a piece of shit that he never wants to see ever again. I'll tell him he's right, fuck him into the mattress and let him wet my shoulder with his tears. He'll be down a week or two, will be kind of cynical for a month and then all will go back to normal. Once again the eternal fairy of joy will prance his bobble butt around, creaming his jeans over pretty colors he saw somewhere or cool packaging at the grocery store. Prancing and baiting, in total control of what's going on.

Because, you see, Justin has an inherent softness about him, and I don't mean his skin or his hair or his lips or shit like that. There is something about him, his demeanor, the way he carries himself maybe, that invites you to have at him, to take a bite, to sink your teeth through the flash until you reach his very core. He arouses more than your cock, stimulating the dark visceral drives some of us have. He smells like when you'll have him you'll have all of him, inside and out, like he'll be yours to consume and control completely. Sometimes people like Hobbs or like me or like his stupid, useless father, people with a mean streak to them, take advantage of that. We can't help it. Every predator needs a prey and Justin is just so appetizing, running around all shamelessly bare and open and ricking of tenderness. That's a tricky game to play because Justin knows what certain people see when they look at him and he loves it. That's his power over us, he really is willing to let you fuck with all of him, to allow you the access to his core. He knows we'll go out of our way to take a bite, that he can use it to get what he wants, to get to our core. He needs us as desperately as we need him, craving our teeth on him as much as we do. The chase, the excitement, the rush are things he needs to be satisfied. When he'll master the art of giving someone else control, of letting someone else devour him there will be no way for people like me to overcome him, to be free of him. But he's just not there yet. He's too young, he doesn't completely understand how this works and what this is, how far he can go. He's still testing his limits. So when his father took a swing at him he was surprised by the force of it, it was too much for him to deal with. Craig knows Justin's buttons and he pushed all of them. Justin will need a while to recover from that. It's not only a matter of overcoming this, he needs to outgrow this. It won't be easy.

So when he did come home that night there were no giggles and no goofy drunken comments about anything. We went straight to the fucking- him- into- the- mattress part. He was naked and in bed with me in a flash and had his serious face on while he was kissing me. he was putting the condom on me like he was had something to prove. He got pretty bity and scratchy, deliberately trying to make me fuck him like I was mad at him. When I reached to the lube he stopped me and started blabbering about how we don't need it. Oh, yes we do. The ass is not self- lubricated and if you'll try to shove something up there a-la natural you'll fail or seriously hurt your partner. I don't care what you've seen in porn or read somewhere; love, come or spit are just not enough. And he should be well aware of that by now. He said he just wants to really feel it, and I knew what he was talking about. Sometimes fucking is just not deep enough, and I don't mean physically. So I fucked him on his back, watching his face so I can see if I was over doing it and just went a lot rougher and a lot faster than usual. He seemed content and suddenly he started laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked, barely able to speak. Angry sex is hard work, especially when you're not really mad.

"He told me I was a faggot" he said through the giggling. That's harsh. Suddenly fucking him like I was angry became easier.

"Guess he was right" I said straight to his ear, pushing his right thigh a little further to try and get even deeper into him, my fingers digging into the soft skin.

"Yeah. I cried, but he was right and that's why it's funny." More giggles. He is so drunk. Craig is so dead.

"I like that you're a faggot, Justin." Yes, I definitely do like that. So does my dick.

"We can be faggots together" he suggested, panting. My cock is up your ass and you like it, you can't get a lot more faggots and together than this.

"We already are" I told him, biting his earlobe and tugging at his hair. I got a true, full hearted genuine smile, the last one I'll see the next few days.

The day after I thought he'll be better, but that was just because he didn't share all the gory details of his conversation with his father. After he did I knew we we're in deep shit, and wasn't really surprised as his drinking and drug use got worse. I just became more and more agitated and worried.

So here we are, in the bed, again, after he had too much to drink, again, only it's been almost two weeks since then. I make sure one more time that his face is turned down and just let myself go.

I stand in front of the loft door, preparing myself for another night of dealing with high as a kite Justin. I open the door and to my surprise he's there, sitting on the couch, head tilted down and eyes on the floor. He's not turning around or saying anything, he stays very still. I put down my briefcase and take off my jacket, watching him. He's naked and he doesn't move at all. I feel relieved, this can only mean one thing. I go to the kitchen to pour myself some cold water, taking my time. A sudden rush of excitement and power and hope washes me. I hope this is the tipping point, that the hard part is over, that from now on it'll get easier and less painful. I finish drinking my water, planning what to do next. I approach the couch slowly until I'm standing in front of him, looking down at him. He doesn't look at me but he definitely acknowledges my presence. I can hear the anticipation in his breathing, I see his fingers digging into the couch. He looks so cute like that. I want to smile, but I don't. I hold his chin and lift his face up gently, forcing him to look at me. I like what I see. He's sober, his eyes aren't puffy from crying and he looks like he knows what he wants. I run my thumb over his lips as I consider the exact number.

"Ask me."

"I want the belt." He speaks very quietly.

"Why?" I want to know what's going through his mind, what he thinks he had done wrong. My hand goes to the back of his head and I grasp golden strands in my fist, keeping his head at the angel I want.

"For taking too much drugs, for not listening to you". He pauses. I wait, he's not finished. He can tell I'm not satisfied so he thinks it over, going deeper.

"For taking this too hard." Still not good enough. I don't respond.

"For letting this happen". Closer. He can see on my face he's not there yet.

"For letting him hurt me" he tries again. Almost. I tug at his hair, my other hand gets to his neck. I hold him, and I'm done being gentle.

"Be precise." He needs to say it, I need to hear it. We're both breathing heavily now.

"For letting someone else hurt me. Someone that isn't you". YES. I'm the one who's allowed to do that, the only one. He's mine. I run my fingers through his hair once for encouragement. He deserves to know when he's doing good for me.

"Do you remember your word?" I know he does. I just want to remind him I don't want to cause him real damage, in case he feels particularly self- distractive.

"Yes." I trust him.

"Go." He knows where. He goes to the back of the couch, it's the perfect height for this. He leans forward a little, placing his hands on the back of the couch, keeping his head down. Kind of like when a policeman wants to search you. I go behind him, taking in the look of him positioning himself for me. His skin is very pale against the dark leather of the back of my couch. It'll be bright red when we're finished, and hot. I get closer and start going over his ass and his thighs with my hands, rubbing and grabbing, preparing the area. I'm being rough on him, but not as much as I'd like. This gets us both exited and will make this easier on him. I step back when I feel we're both ready.

"You get 30. I want you to count out loud". 30 is a lot. We rarely go over ten with the belt. He hates the belt. Belt means punishment, it means he'd done wrong and disappointed me, and he doesn't like that. When we do this because he wants it or because I feel like spanking him a little I usually use my hands and he's in my lap. It's more intimate and easier to control the strikes, not to mention I get to feel him fidgeting with every strike and hear him mewing his pain and pleasure up close. This is a lot harsher, but then again, this is not for fun. I take of my belt and wrap it around my hand a few times, making sure I can control it properly and the buckle won't get in contact with his skin.

I don't warn him before I begin, the surprise is a part of it. When my belt hits the skin of his ass he jumps a little, a very pale pink mark shows up on the exact spot. Those will stop fading away in a few more hits. I strike again. And again. He holds his breath and takes it pretty well, his voice mostly steady as he counts. I'll gradually get harder and faster, but for now I keep it steady and fairly slow. I let the feeling of absolute control take over me, soaking in the sounds. The sound of my belt hitting his ass, the sound of him breathing and sighing and crying out in pain, the struggle to keep calm as he counts for me. They make me hard, make my teeth ache, make my mouth water in anticipation. I like hurting him a lot, but I like even more that he allows me to do so, that he wants me to. When we get to nine his voice starts to break. This is hard for him. His ass gets more and more red, more and more sore. I know it's burning hot and I wish I could feel it against my hips. Maybe later. I turn my belt to the back of his thighs, increasing the pace. I start to sweat. This is not exactly easy for me too. I alternate between his thighs and his ass for a while, wanting him over all sore but not severely bruised. He's in tears when we get to 17.

"Spread your legs." I order. He does as I say immediately, even though he knows what's coming next and he absolutely hates it. I start hitting his inner thighs. He's especially sensitive there and he doesn't take it so well. He's really crying now, but he keeps on counting for me, his voice shaky. He starts begging at 23, telling me he can't take any more, that it's too painful, that he can't do it but I'm not stopping. He doesn't mean it, he just needs to beg and to be ignored and cry. If he really couldn't, or wouldn't, take any more he would've said his safe word, that's the deal. I order him to keep on counting, not even addressing his pleas for me to stop. He continues from where he left, not giving himself a discount. I'm so proud of him for that, for everything. We're so close, he can do this. I feel like if he manages to go through this, he'll be able to cope. God, I hope I'm right. And then we're done. He got to 30. My good, good boy handled his punishment. I want to hug him and choke him and fuck him all at the same time. I drop the belt and wait. He cries into the back of the couch for a few seconds and then he collapses on the floor. I rush to him and take him in my arms. He clings and melts into me like I didn't just beat him, like I can make this go away. He's crying so hard that his body is shivering and shaking in my arms, his hand clutching my shirt in a desperate attempt to get even closer to me. I let him, stroking his hair and telling him he's a good boy, and I'm proud of him and he did great for me over and over and over again. We do this, sitting on the floor and rocking gently for a very long time. I let him get it all out as I hold him and sooth his burning red skin with my hands and his mind with my words. He calms down very slowly and the crying gradually stops. We don't move, we just sit there and hold each other quietly. I breathe him in, my hands in his hair, my lips on his forehead. I want to tell him that I really meant it, that I more than like being faggots with him, that I want to keep on doing that. I want to say that I'm here for him, that I understand, that it gets easier. I want to tell him that he's mine, that if he'll ever let someone else hurt him like that again I'll fucking strangle him to death.

I settle for a kiss.