It's been a week since this all started. Seven days, four hours, twenty seven minutes.
Fifty six seconds.
But hey, who's counting?
We've done it a total of nine times. Twice on the first day, and twice just now. If you'd had your way, the number would have been in the hundreds. I've heard the stories about the inexhaustible sex drive of a teenage boy, but your appetite for amicable relations is far beyond anything I've ever imagined. I just can't keep up with you.
"Lucky for us," you said, the first time you wanted some and I couldn't get it up, "you don't have to be hard for me to fuck you."
I didn't say anything. How do you respond to something like that? It doesn't matter if you're getting nothing from this, as long as I get mine. It sounded like something he would say. Something said only to hurt, to make me into something less than human, even within my own mind. You had become Father Dearest all over again.
It's the same. The exact same. And I know exactly what's going to happen, because I've been down this road before. I know.
And yet…
I'll never make it change.
Because I want this. As sick and twisted as it may seem, as perverted as you may think I am, I want this. I want the humiliation. I want the sadness and the anger and the fear. I want the pain. I want it all.
Because pain is better than nothing.
It's masochism at its finest, I know. Getting hurt to feel good. Except it doesn't feel good, not really. And it's certainly not doing anything for my libido. It's just better than the total emptiness I feel otherwise.
And besides, now I can have nightmares about something other than… him.
I can have nightmares about you.
Speak of the devil. You're dreaming right now, lying beside me. It looks like a nightmare at first, but no, I know better. You really are a machine. Any minute now you're going to wake up and then I'd better be ready, because you're not even going to ask.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate YOU, you BASTARD!
I put my foot to your wrist and I push. Stainless steel stretches and snaps, and so does something else, bone, I think. I really don't care. The chain is broken and I am free, up and running and almost at the door but then I stop.
Because you told me to.
"RYUU!! STOP."
Your mouth moves. Words come out. The air vibrates, sending those words to my ear. I hear. My ear translates those vibrations into sounds, and my brain turns those into words. It gives them meaning. It puts significance to them. It makes them important.
Even if they aren't.
I sink to my knees. I'm beginning to shake. I curl around myself, hands over my head, face in the carpet and ass in the air. Just like I know you want me. I could just get up and run, but I can't. I won't.
I don't want to.
You're behind me, now. If I had been wearing any pants, you would be ripping them off. As it is, your hand is on my hip, and it's so cold that it makes me shiver. You lean over me, pressing your strangely chill chest up against my too-warm back, and whisper in my ear.
"You've been bad, Ryuu. Very bad."
You've got your broken hand draped over my shoulder like it's a hug. I can see it. It's already starting to swell. It needs medical attention, but you aren't going to get any. At least not until you're done.
I know you. You're as much of a masochist as I am.
"What do we do to bad boys, Ryuu?" You're pushing into me now, not really entering, just letting me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the only preparation I'm going to get is our little pep talk.
"We punish them." I whisper back.
Because that's what you want me to say.
And then it hurts again, and for a little while, I can feel.
