Author's Note: You might've seen this story posted on LiveJournal under the name "secret untold," a.k.a. one of my five million other pennames. Don't be alarmed. It really is me.

Author's Note #2: THIS STORY IS SLASH. Moreover, it's dark and unsettling for reasons I can't really get into without spoiling the story. If you're squeamish or find slash offensive, this fic is NOT your cup of tea. Please, if either is the case, move on to a different story instead.

Last Rites

by Ever A Mystery

You are kind to meet me here. I half expected that you would refuse, considering how it has been in the past. I assure you that, at least tonight, I do deserve your trust.

Yes, yes, you're wondering. I'll tell you right now. The reason I came here is for you to end my life. Hm, you seem surprised by that. Is it that I would ask such a thing, or that it's even possible for me to die at all? Despite appearances, I am not immortal. Not quite. When I've nothing left to live for, it is possible for me to die.

But before I leave this world, there is something I must tell you. No, I'm not saying it for you; I'm saying it for myself, and also for them because they never knew the truth. I've carried this burden far too long. I'd rather not be tortured by it any more.

It involves a certain man whose name I never knew. I was just nineteen, and I had been in America less then a day when I met him. With few belongings and even less money, I had no real plans for how to earn my living.

In Romania, I had resorted to petty theft and giving my companionship to lonely women, typically much older than myself, who found me attractive. They would take care of me to some extent; those who had lost their husbands sometimes shared their homes with me, and all of them bought me things. But I never lied and called it love. I think they knew what it was, just the same as I. To this day, Scott and my Queen are the only love I've known.

But that isn't what I wished to talk about. Perhaps I'm only stalling. The subject was that nameless man, the one I met so long ago.

I was wandering rather aimlessly about the streets of New York when "he" found me. No, I never learned his name, and he never knew mine, either. He was in his mid-forties, I think, tall with graying hair. He looked like money. I knew he was rich well before he mentioned it, with his fine gold watch and his expensive suit. Granted, I believed that all Americans were rich back then, but this man... remarkably so. I stopped and stared at him as if he were a king. He stopped for me as well.

"You're not from around here," he said to me. I hadn't even opened my mouth.

"I... I'm not," I admitted. "I am rather new to this place."

He smirked. "Illegal?"

To that, I said nothing.

He cupped my chin in his hand and made my eyes meet his. I'll never forget them: cold, dead blue.

"You're a very handsome boy," he said. "I'd like to take you home with me." I didn't trust the tone of his voice.

"Thank you," I said, "but I must go." When I tried to leave, he grabbed me by the arm.

"How much do you want?" he asked. "I can give you more money than you've ever seen."

I told him, "I'm not a prostitute," and tried to wrench away from him, but he just tightened his grip.

"You are for sale," he insisted. "Everything is. I just need to find your price. Five thousand?"

"No."

"Six thousand."

"No!"

He pulled me close to him and breathed into my ear, "Ten. Thousand. Dollars. If you'll sleep with me, that's what I'll give you. I know you need the money."

Well, it seems he was right about me. For that, I said, "All right."

I told myself he wasn't much different from wives and lonely widows I had entertained, and he wasn't an unattractive man, though his coldness made him somewhat less desirable. Ultimately, it was the same thing: sex exchanged for payment. Still, this was the only time it had been so overt.

He took me to his penthouse suite. I had never seen anything like it before, so much glass and gold and marble and all kinds of extravagant things. But he didn't give me a tour of the place. He just led me to his bedroom.

"Don't you want my name?" I asked.

He told me, "I don't need it," as he closed and locked the door. "Now. Take off your clothes. I'd like to see what ten grand buys." He sat on the bed and watched me.

I hated the feel of his stare. I tried to turn my back to him, but he insisted on seeing my face. And as I took off my clothes -- slowly as I could -- those eyes seemed to see through me, smoldering with impatient lust. The man made me feel tainted without even touching me.

"Nice," he said, "very nice. Now, turn around for me -- slowly. I'd like to inspect my purchase." And inspect, he did.

He put his hands on me then. My shoulders, my back, my arms, my thighs, there was not a part of me that he left unexplored, making assessments along the way.

"Toned, but not too muscular... Graceful, like a dancer... Flawless skin, smooth to the touch... Your ass is nice and firm... You're worth every penny. You should do this for a living." Yes, it was degrading. But the worst was when he held my penis like it was his own possession, just an object for his use. When he did, he smiled at me, not saying anything. Ironically, that said more than enough.

"How do you feel?" he asked. He was still touching me.

I admitted lowly, "Like a whore." I knew it was what he wanted to hear.

He chuckled. "Just think of the money. That should help your spirits." Studying my face again, he said, "You really are a beautiful thing. Maybe I should keep you."

As if one night wasn't enough.

You're looking at me strangely, and you seem a bit uncomfortable. Does something bother you? Well, I'll let you think about it. Maybe you'll find the words.

It was... a strange experience. Alternately, he pleasured me, flattered me, and reminded me of what I was: a body he could fuck. He never let me forget about that; he told me that he owned me, and he never once pretended we were making love. And when it was time for him to satisfy himself, he pushed himself inside of me with no words or tenderness, and only the minimum of preparation so he wouldn't... damage me.

I closed my eyes and thought of the money, just like he had told me to. I tried not to think of what I had surrendered for it, what was being done to my body, the sounds of his animal grunts and groans, or the way that I felt sickened when his semen spilled within me. If I thought about those things, I would hate myself.

"You can go now, boy," he said after he was finished. He zipped up his pants. "Get dressed and get out of here." I was still naked and lying there, curled up on his bed. I didn't let him see me cry.

"What about my money?" I asked, meekly as a mouse.

He opened his wallet, counted it out and threw it at me. Then, he left the room for a drink.

No, he didn't try to hurt me. He had no interest in physical pain, feeling it or inflicting it. But he did crave power. That was why he bought me. And yes, I took his money in spite of everything.

I've never told anyone of that night... You won't look at me. Yes, it was unpleasant for me, but not what you make it out to be. You're mistaken; these aren't tears. Only human beings shed tears. What remained of my humanity died with my Queen.

Here now, take the gun and put the barrel to my heart. You must want to pull the trigger since I murdered your stepsister. Think of it as justice. Pull the trigger, do it now. Why are your hands shaking? Don't look at me that way. Instead, I want you to see the man who took your Emma from you.

Do it, damn you! Scott and my Queen were the only good that was left in me. Without them, there is only a monster. See him! Kill him! Send him to Hell.

Blood... my blood... It's over now. Thank you. Thank you... Now... I'm... free.

The End.

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