"Good afternoon ma'am," the man said politely, sidling up next to the frumpy, middle-aged woman who was searching through rows of ratty old books. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

The woman smiled graciously at him, tapping at her peach-fuzz chin with concentration.

"Yes...uh...thanks, I was just trying to get some of my son's school-books second-hand...they get so expensive, y'see..."

"Of course, of course," the overweight man nodded in sympathy. "What kind of books does he need?"

"Oh...um..." her eyes glazed over for a second as she rubbed at her forehead. "Oh I've gone completely blank. Uh...wait, I'll go ask him now, he's right over there."

She waddled off and the man's sunken eyes flickered over across the shop, where a tall, tanned curly-haired teenager was looking at a rows of old lamps. He wore square-rimmed glasses and his eyes were huge and green as he turned to his mother with an impatient little frown on his face. The man swallowed and looked away again.

When he had a handle on himself, he turned back around to see the woman and her son talking to another employee, a new girl who every customer took a shine to, with her bubbly personality and wide smile. Soon she had the mother and son under her spell, sweeping them away into another section of the store. He swallowed again and started rearranging the paperbacks, feeling the familiar hot burning feeling begin to rise through his body.

The new girl looked around school-aged. She was definitely attractive with her sleek, dark hair, beaming smile and shining eyes. The woman's son would be very taken with her, just like any other boy his age would be. He wondered how old he was; eighteen? Nineteen?

He remembered one of his boys from years ago, who'd been a little older and had similar curly hair. In the man's mind, he had him nicknamed as Squirmer, because of how much he had writhed and thrashed underneath him. Squirmer was number three in his top ten favorites.

Going through his top ten always calmed him down and kept his anger in check.

At number five was Giggle, the small, sharp-faced twink with dyed red and purple hair and black-rimmed eyes. He'd tittered like a twelve year old throughout the entire encounter, even though he looked like he was in his mid-twenties. In retrospect, he might've been putting that on to try and look cute, but hey, it worked. His was one of the most popular videos on the site.

Number four was Tough Guy. He'd had tattoos on his arms and was on the short and stocky side. He'd come in wearing a backwards cap and a sneer on his lips, using as much filthy language as humanely possible. He'd participated very viciously in the video's proceedings, but when the camera stopped rolling, his eyes had gone watery for a second and his mouth had turned down, before he got everything together and stormed out again.

Muso was number two, a contemptuous guy who'd been older then most, looking like he was in his thirties. He'd had a swagger on him, a few piercings and a Modest Mouse t-shirt which he'd paired with black skinny jeans. He was particularly good at giving head, which was why was he was so high on the list. Like Tough Guy, he'd tried to act like none of the video had bothered him, but afterwards he'd seen him sitting in his car, smoking cigarette after cigarette and scratching madly at his skin like he wanted to peel it all off.

His mind drifted over to number one. Kitten who was so named because he looked like the youngest he'd ever had with his shy Bambi eyes and soft smooth skin. He was always in the top five, drifting upwards and downwards in rank depending on how sadistic he felt that day. Sometimes he felt a tad guilty about how much the poor kid had cried and bled, but on a bad day when he had particularly rude customers or someone had pushed him around one too many times, his mind would wander over to that moment years and years ago when he'd had complete domination over somebody else.

He licked his lips and breathed in hard. His mind was settled and sedated now, a calmly breathing beast. He pressed down at his button-down shirt, pushed his hair back and straightened the row of books one last time, before sauntering off again. There was a slight strut in his walk, like he was a proud rooster amongst the henhouse.

"Oh for Goodness sake," he heard the familiar annoyed shrill from behind him. He turned to see the little ball of frustration hurtling his way, like a meteor on collision course towards earth. He forced himself to look blank and unassuming as his tiny superior glared up at him through her thick-rimmed glasses.

"Look Reynolds, you've just spent a minute rearranging the books all wrong! I saw about five out of order, so can you go back and arrange them properly if that's not too difficult?"

A thousand furious phrases were screaming through his head as she barreled off again and he turned back towards the row of books. That bitch was PMSing twenty-four fucking seven. Bitch probably bossed her whipped husband around too, had him castrated like a dog in the backyard. Bitch wouldn't have a husband, she was an ugly short fuck with a face like the contents of his toilet bowl.

He breathed in and out again, slow and steady. He thought of the curly-haired teen across the store and what he might look like spread out on the sheets before him, panting for breath, begging for more. But that didn't even help, because that new slut kept crawling into his head and the boy's green eyes would sweep over to her, grinning with appreciation, leaving him forgotten.

Fake, vapid little bimbo.

Midget Napoleonite, thought she was fucking better then him.

Fuck them...fuck them...

"Excuse me," his sullen thoughts were interrupted as he looked over at a young African-American girl, chewing gum behind him.

"I was wondering if you could show me where the shoe section was?"

He forced his face into a pleasant grin, eyes disappearing away into the folds of his skin.

"Just follow me," he said, taking petty satisfaction in leaving the books unsorted. Leading the way through the shop, he passed the new bitch talking to the curly-haired boy, his mother dawdling somewhere else in the store.

"Hey," he barked at the girl, who turned around, smoothing her fringe back. "There's books that need rearranging over there, so get at it."

"Right away sir!" she grinned back at him, bouncing off, leaving the tall teenager looking despondently after her. The man allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk as he stalked back off again, his gum-munching customer by his side.

Small victories were one of the few pleasures he enjoyed throughout his monotonous existence. It helped the fire behind his eyes cool down again.

Half an hour later, he took his lunch break, craving a good, greasy sandwich to clog up his arteries with. He went into a small, funky little place off the main street and after placing his order, sat down by the window. He had a habit of people watching and he often passed the time by making quick-second judgements on what the various individuals might be like.

The guy on the other side of the street with the long dark hair and a limp. Maybe he'd got drunk and been in a car-accident, because his girlfriend cheated on him and took all his money.

A pair of women dressed in skinny jeans and punk t-shirts with nose-piercings and colored hair. Maybe they'd been friends since high-school and were in a secret lesbian affair together.

A heavily built man in a suit, with crow's feet around his tired grey eyes. Maybe he was coming back from a funeral for some random person he barely knew and felt bad for not getting to know them better.

That big curvy, blonde woman over by the counter with the red-rimmed glasses and polka dot dress. Maybe she was a florist and was running short on a certain color of roses and needed them restocked.

"Harry!" one of the servers called and he got up from his table. As he walked over, the possible florist's eyes glanced over at him, before flicking away again. As he took his coffee and wrapped up sandwich, her head snapped around all at once, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes.

When he was back at his seat, he looked at her from out the corner of his eye, wondering if they somehow knew each other. She didn't look familiar at all, but she was gazing at him with such intensity now, it was somewhat unnerving.

He felt her burning eyes on him as she took a seat at the other end of the café. He glanced up and sent her an awkward, thin-lipped smile - her face darkened like thunder in response. He felt a stab of confusion at this stranger's hostility and looked back down again into his coffee cup.

Anger immediately began bubbling deep down in his body like boiling water. Couldn't he even eat his lunch in peace without someone treating him like shit? What had he ever done to her anyway? He didn't even know this fucking crazy bitch.

He tried to keep his breathing under control, taking a huge bite of his sandwich, wiping at the mayo collecting at the corners of his mouth.

"Penny!" someone at the counter yelled out, as he rubbed his greasy fingers off on his pants. When he looked up again, the woman was getting her coffee and fumbling for her phone, propping it under her ear. She nodded a few times, said something shortly and then shoved it away, hurrying for the door.

Her eyes swept over him as she walked out and her face did something funny, curling up in a mixture of fury and repulsion. He stared after her and his indignation reached a breaking point all at once. First the new girl had flounced in and taken away his customer, then his fucking boss had made him look like an idiot and now this. Some stranger giving him filthy looks for no good fucking reason. Who the hell did she think she was?

As she clicked on down the street, he jumped to his feet, sandwich in hand, storming for the door. He saw her curly blonde head bobbing down the sidewalk and he quickly stalked up behind her. When he caught up to her brisk walk, he put a heavy hand on her shoulder, forcing her around to face him.

"'Scuse me, do you have some kind've problem or something...?" he snarled but she wrenched herself away from him violently, looking as though he'd pissed on her shoe.

"Don't touch me pervert!" she screeched and then something hot and wet exploded over his face and down his shirt. He gasped with shock, looking down at his coffee stained shirt as she whipped around a corner.

He found himself rushing after her, watching the blonde head disappear down the busy, bustling street. His crushed the soggy remains of his sandwich in his fist and the white-hot rage blurred his vision. The coffee was running down into his pants, down his leg and dripping wet and lukewarm off the end of his nose.

"Fucking fat-ass whore!" he yelled at the top of his lungs after her, but she didn't even look around, dissolving away into the crowds of pedestrians. He stared down at his feet, breathing heavily through his nose like an enraged bull, heart pounding madly in his chest.

He'd slit her throat, he'd shit down her neck, he'd light her on fucking fire and watch her fucking burn alive. Fuck her, fuck her to hell, fuck her to death. He hoped she got kidnapped and raped until she died, fucking whore-bitch-slut-fucking-piece-of-fat-fucking...

As the violent images flashed before his eyes, he clambered uselessly around for the cigarettes in his pockets. Once he'd lit up and inhaled the smoke deep inside his lungs, he felt his knotted up muscles start to unwind. He leaned against a lamp-post, puffing away, eyes falling closed.

His mind was a blank, white space for a good long couple of minutes, before he managed to mold his temper down into a tiny ball, deep down inside himself once more. He flicked the cigarette butt away and started making his way back down the street again, throwing his ruined sandwich into a nearby bin as he did so.

The rest of the day passed in an uninteresting blur. He'd been berated for his stained shirt but his mind was elsewhere, firmly fixed on finding an explanation for the woman's behavior. He'd been called a pervert, a sleaze and a creep plenty of times before in his life. He'd come to expect it, what with his...hobby and all.

The only explanation he could find, was that the woman had seen a relative in one of his videos. Well it was her fault for looking up gay porn in the first place. No-one had typed it into the search engine for her.

If he'd found a family member in a porn video online, would he had been as angry?

Probably not. It was the person's choice to be in a video after all. No one was forcing them to do it. It wasn't like he found guys off the street and dragged them away to his fuck dungeon for Christ's sake. Half those boys found out how to contact him themselves and the other half were recommended to him through...other people with...similar hobbies. The boy involved had to agree to arranging a meeting anyway. If they said no, it wasn't like he could reach into the internet and rape them through the screen.

The self righteous bitch needed to get the fuck over herself.

On his way back home, he picked up some KFC and when he staggered tiredly into his cramped apartment, he opened up iTunes to get himself calm. The greasy comfort food and the familiar strings of Alice In Chains made him feel still and placid, the growling, snapping beast in his head settling down to rest for the night.

Wiping his fingers on his grubby couch, he reached for his phone, the music pulsing pleasantly in his ears. He tapped in a number and waited for somebody to pick up.

"Hello?"

His heart sank immediately at the sharp voice. This wasn't the person he wanted to talk to.

"Uhh...is Rudy there? This is his number...so...I don't why someone else's picked up..."

"Oh fucking hell, is that you Harry?" the woman snarled immediately down the other line. "Rudy don't want nothing to do with you, when are you gonna fucking understan'...?"

"Oh go fuck yourself Cindy," he snapped back, the animal inside him rearing up all at once, gnashing its teeth. "Where's Rudy?"

"He don't wanna see you. Why don't you leave the kid alone?"

He wished he could strangle her to death and watch her eyes pop out of her skull...

"You don't know nothing about him and me..."

"You really are the biggest piece of shit, you know that?" the woman sneered at him and he felt like ripping something open so he could watch it bleed out in front of him. He took several breaths in and tried to think of a scathing retort, his brain offering him nothing.

"You're just a...bitch..." he breathed, eyes clenching shut at how pitiful it sounded. Cindy laughed out loud in his ear.

"Yeah okay, why don't you ring me again when you're not acting like a thirteen year old?" she scoffed, before she abruptly hung up again, leaving the man fuming at the end of the line.

He resisted the urge to chuck the phone across the room. He wouldn't be able to afford a new one. Instead, he walked into his kitchen and grabbed a bag of Doritos from his cupboard and a can of coke from the fridge. He scoffed it all down on the couch, turning his iTunes up even higher until the music was ringing painfully against his eardrums.

His cell-phone bleeped and he picked it up with a grimace, wiping his cheese-powdered lips at the back of his hand.

"Harry?" the weary voice at the end of the line murmured and the thought of his smooth skin and dark messy hair flashed through his mind, making something funny happen in his chest.

"Baby..." he tried to say and there was a short huff of air from the other end of the line. He imagined the line of pimples on his cheek and his crooked teeth and his dark, serious eyes and...

"Don't call me that. I don't want you ringin' me anymore, okay?"

"Huh? What the fuck you talking bout?"

"I told you, I don't want to see you, it's not that hard to understan'..."

He felt like the walls were closing in on him, crushing him up into a ball. His throat constricted and he suddenly couldn't breathe, his heart plunging down lower and lower in his chest.

"I just talked to you last week and you were fucking fine!" he hissed furiously into the phone. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Look..." Rudy sighed with exasperation. "You know...you know wot's wrong...I've tol' you a million times I don't wanna be in your goddamn videos and..."

"Jesus Christ, you don't have to be in them if you don't want to...what the fuck's that bitch been telling you, you don't even know what you're goddamn saying..."

"Don't talk about my sister like that!" Rudy jumped to Cindy's defense at once. "And I'm an adult Harry, even if you treat me like I'm a kid. I know exactly what I'm saying and I'm saying I want you to stop callin' me."

"Look," the man pleaded, his voice losing it's hostile edge. "I never meant to hit you...you're - you're my boy..."

There was a tense, uncomfortable pause.

When he spoke again, Rudy's voice was slightly repulsed, like he had bugs crawling under his skin at the other man's words;

"I have to go. Please don't ring me again."

The man stared up at the ceiling, swallowing hard as the line was disconnected. He put his phone down and closed his eyes. Fury snapped through him all at once and he lashed out hard at his tiny coffee-table, a stab of pain shooting through him. Then the utter hopelessness kicked in and he felt everything go numb and tingly, not quite believing this pile of shit was his life.

He moved mindlessly over towards the doorway and through to his bedroom. He lay flat on his back and got his cigarettes out, sliding one between his rubbery lips and lighting up. The nicotine was sharp and soothing in his shaking body.

He knew why people treated him like this. It would be so different if he was a handsome, successful forty-nine year old with an interest in younger men. Because he was over-weight and sallow-skinned, people found him revolting. If he was good-looking, no-one would give a shit about who he found attractive and what he liked to do in the bedroom.

In people's minds, an ugly person wasn't allowed to have a sex life, an ugly person wasn't allowed to be attracted to anybody else or heavens above, they're precious digestive systems wouldn't be able to handle such a nauseous affair! For fuck's sake...

If he was handsome and successful...if he wasn't a fat-ass with his nicotine-stained teeth and sunken eyes, jumping between shitty jobs...

The whole world was so shallow and vain and conceited.

Idiots. Assholes. Stupid fucking imbeciles.

He had never felt so completely and utterly powerless in his entire pathetic existence. He hated this. Why did the whole world insist on making his life a misery?

He let out a short, pained sigh, sending his hand over his face.

There was one thing that always helped when was feeling this small and insignificant.

Whenever he was feeling pissed off and useless, there was one boy that crept shyly into his mind to make him feel better. He had a different boy for his different moods and Kitten was assigned firmly for these kind've nights, after these kind've days.

He imagined him, doe-eyed with his soft, brown hair over his face, sitting nervously at the end of the bed, looking down at his hands in his lap. His imagination changed truths and conveniently left things out about what the kid had been like in real life. In his mind, there were no tired bags under his eyes and there wasn't that utterly terrified look on his face. He wasn't so bony and skinny either...his imagination made him smoother and fuller, with poutier lips and silkier hair. The scared look in his larger, darker eyes was sweet and submissive, not panicking and repulsed like it had really been all those years ago.

"What's wrong baby?" he'd whisper and the boy would bite so prettily at his full lips, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. So shy. So vulnerable. Beautiful, beautiful boy.

"Uh...uh...I f-feel...I f-feel..." he mewled in a tiny voice, a voice that over the years had become much more childish and cute then it had ever been in reality. "I feel funny in m-my...in my tummy Daddy."

In his mind, he'd move slowly over towards him, down to the end of the bed, until he could breathe in the sweet scent of his hair - although he'd actually smelt musty, like old books and second-hand clothes in real life. He slid his heavy hand underneath his t-shirt - because tonight Baby Boy was wearing one of the man's baggy grey shirts, which made him look even younger then ever - and he felt his hot, heated skin, warming up and trembling. How he'd loved the way his stomach muscles had quivered nervously beneath his touch, how his big, innocent eyes had swam and glistened, those plump lips damp with spit.

"Do you feel all tingly, sweetheart?" he asked him gently and his fingers would move down between his legs - tonight baby boy was wearing a cute little green thong that he'd once filmed a twink in years ago - and he felt the moistness of his pubic hair, felt his silky hardness straining into his hand. His kitten squirmed and squeaked, clamping the man's hand in between his soft thighs - although in real life they'd been skinny and covered with faint, wiry hair. His baby boy in his fantasies had no body hair to speak of, except for the soft thatch of pubic hair that he had loved stroking and playing with.

"Do you feel funny here? Tell Daddy..." he breathed into his ear, loving the contrast between slick skin and damp cotton beneath his fingers. Now little kitten was all red and embarrassed, covering up his face and peeking out at him through his fingers.

"I w-was...I w-was...thinking about b-bad things and it went all...went all hard on my tummy...and I touched it and it felt nice and...oh..." the man kissed his neck, pressing his lips against his fluttering pulse point, sliding his hand into the fabric, kneading him until his big eyes fluttered shut and his red lips pursed with pained pleasure.

"Sir?" he whimpered. "My tummy hurts..."

"Tell Daddy what you were thinking of," he hissed against his flushing skin, rubbing him even harder until he was mewling and wriggling against him. He wrapped one arm around his back, pulling him in close and the boy hid his face away into his shoulder.

"Uh...uh..." he panted into the crook of the man's neck and he ran a hand up and down the curve of his spine, slowly rubbing between his legs.

"Th-that I was...was...I was bad...for being-being dirty and wearing a th-thong and-and t-touching myself...and I needed to be...needed to be punished..."

"You were a bad, bad little boy," he hissed and his baby started to tremble. "What were you thinking of when you played with your pretty pink cock? Thinking of me plunging in and out of your tight little asshole until you cried?"

His brown eyes were liquid and fully blown, lips full and slicked red, panting shallowly for breath.

"Yesyesyes..." he gasped, hips rocking up and down into the man's hand. "I like your cock...it hurts so much..."

"You love being stretched open by me, don't you?"

He nodded, giggling and squirming, skin glowing red.

"I like it Daddy..."

"You like me pumping inside of you, filling you up with come?"

"Please...please sir..."

"You love how far I have to spread your legs..."

"Daddy...Daddy...uh...uh...D-Daddy..."

"...how big and fat my cock is for you, how much it hurts, how huge and hard it is?"

"Oh...oh...y-yes...Daddy..."

And that's when his baby boy would offer himself up to him, spread out on the mattress, bottom up in the air, the green fabric of his thong riding up between his creamy, perfectly soft cheeks. He'd look up at him, blinking his eyes shyly, his fingers in his mouth as his hips rocked up and down against the mattress, trying to gain friction against the faded sheets. Reach around and push the fabric of his thong to the side, see his cock spring free and bounce to his belly, swollen and dripping with pre-come.

If he smacked that perfect ass, his cheeks would quiver and redden and he'd keep on spanking his little bottom until he was sobbing into the pillow, rocking uncontrollably up and down despite himself.

Tug the fabric out between his ass, see his fluttering pink hole clenching and unclenching before his eyes, such a perfect little entrance, tight and moist with his baby's slick secretions. Plunge his thick fingers in and out of him, feeling his muscles squeeze around him, vice tight as his little kitten cried and bucked into the sheets, oh God he looked so good, he had complete control over him, he was so sweet and young and perfect, oh God it was too much already and he couldn't, he couldn't, he...

The man threw his head back, crashing back to reality, clenching his eyes shut and spurting hot come all over his fist. He fell back, completely spent and boneless. He loved his boys. He loved them all so much.

The world was calm and still around him for a blissfully long moment. Then finally, his brain started slowly kicking into gear again.

He always forbade himself from remembering the uncontrollable crying from the closed bathroom all those years ago and the hand-towel spotted with dark red blood he'd found a day later. He'd convinced himself that the boy had loved it, had convinced himself all his boys had loved it.

In a sharp, sudden moment he realized how pathetic it was, a nearly fifty year old man lying alone in his filthy sheets with come all over his hand and cheese powder on his chin, masturbating to a teenage boy he hadn't seen in years. Just because some kid half his age had given him the flick.

Fuck.

He'd...he'd actually thought he'd had a chance with Rudy.

The kid had a bad habit of hunching his shoulders over, was awkward and heavy in his movements and all his clothes looked mismatched and ill-fitting. Despite his narrowed eyes and sticking out teeth, he was absolutely beautiful in a strange way he couldn't explain.

He was going to die like this, wasn't he? Alone with his flaccid dick in hand and come all over himself, dreaming about little boys who all found him completely revolting.

The wave of depression crashed over him as he rubbed his semen into the sheets and rolled over onto his side. His tiredness had a dull, empty feeling as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

He called in sick the next day. He couldn't be fucked with anything. He slept in until midday, only getting up because lying around was making his back hurt.

There was a little convenience store down the street and he went in wearing his boxers, slippers, the old shirt he'd imagined the kid wearing the night before and a black dressing-gown with a skull on the back. The guy behind the counter was used to people like him skulking around and he actually saw a pajama-clad woman down one of the aisles with her hair in rollers, unhappily filling her basket up with ice-cream and chocolate bars.

He got a stack of beef jerky, pretzels, a bottle of coke and two bags of sweet-chili chips. At the counter, the other depressed customer refused to look at him, like she knew he was in a similar pitiful situation and didn't want to acknowledge it.

Back in his apartment, he ordered a large meat-lover's pizza and put in one of his old VHS tapes from years ago, with the boy he'd called Gaper. He was so named because of his...well...very stretched out part of anatomy. He swore if he looked hard enough at certain points, he'd be able to see the kid's intestines.

He'd also chose the video cause he wasn't in it...he'd filmed it. He wasn't in the mood to see his bloated body pumping away at some cute, squealing boy who was secretly cringing at the sight of him. He'd probably be sick just watching it.

Half-heartedly jerking off, stuffing food into his mouth, he got bored with the cassette after five minutes and took it out again. He took his indigestion pills with a swig of coke, knowing they were going to be useless if he kept on eating shit all day.

His back still hurt and so did his ankles, feet and neck. He snorted and cleared out his throat, grabbing a bag of salted peanuts from the cupboard, feeling like a sick, pathetic old man.

He took another nap on the stained bed, covered in old food crumbs, phlegmy snores filling up the apartment. It was a quarter past three when he got up again, bulging stomach surging up and down with his heavy, nasally breathing.

After taking a shower, frying up a bacon sandwich and picking food crumbs out of his belly-button, he was at a brief loss at what else to do. Maybe he could check up on his site. Just to do anything to pass the time.

He pulled his laptop from under the bed, turning it on as he flopped down on his back across the mattress. While he waited for it to start up, he grabbed the bag of chips and peanuts he'd left on the floor. He poured the salty peanuts into the chip packet and started stuffing them into his mouth as his desktop showed up. Sometimes he kept it pretty normal, maybe just a picture of a favorite band or artist, but other times he'd screen-shot favorite parts of his videos to get him in a good mood when he opened up his computer. Today's desktop was Devendra Banhart rather then anal fisting.

Smirking slightly and clicking on the internet symbol, he went onto Google and got into his emails. As usual, he had a few comments and notifications about people favoriting shit. One email interested him though. The header said; Hi, I'm interested in being in one of your videos?

His eyes flickered over to the name of the sender;

Matt Smith.

He clicked open the message. The email read;

Hi! I'm a twink who loves being fucked by dominant men in every way possible. Nothings too dirty for me and I love watching the twinks here being degraded and used up like sex-toys. I'd love to arrange some kind of meeting so we can make a film! I have a picture of me attached. ;) Hope to speak to you and maybe get closer very soon. ;D

Sounded like someone who'd actually enjoy himself in a video, unlike the more formal, almost embarrassed emails and phone-calls he often got. He opened the link up without thinking twice.

His downloading bar popped up and it seemed to take an unusually long time for the picture to load up then usual. He frowned in confusion. A few minutes passed and then suddenly, a hot pink gif started flashing brightly in big capital letters FUCK YOU!

Really?

Well that was mature.

He'd been vaguely excited about seeing this guy as well. Ah well.

He clicked away, but the gif popped up again. He tried to exit out of it, but it wouldn't let him escape.

Letting out a little huff of frustration, he clicked and clicked at the little red x in the corner.

Dozens more copies of the gif started filling up his screen, swarming his desktop like cockroaches, all screaming FUCK YOU!

Each time he tried to exit one, another popped up. When he tried to get out of the Preview program the gifs were hosted on, his curser turned into a little spinning rainbow ball. The insult flashed before his eyes and he felt his heart plunge down into the pit of his stomach.

Fucking hell - he didn't want to put up with this shit right now.

Exhaling air out harshly, he managed to get onto the internet, clicking at links until he had his site up.

His insides turned to ice all at once.

The whole page had glitched up and his mouth fell open in disbelief. What was once a simple black screen with little thumbnails, titles and links to specific kinks was now a blue and white mess of stuffed together words and pixilated pictures. He tried to scroll down but it stalled and shuddered, the words meshing in on themselves. He tried to click refresh, but the page just showed up the same.

Feeling cold and clammy, he clicked on a link to one of his videos. The video showed up on the glitchy background and for a moment, he thought it would still work. But a caption popped up proclaiming; this page can send viruses to your computer, which he knew would scare all his viewers away in a heartbeat.

When he clicked the play-button, the video was torturously slow and jumpy, restarting and buffering every half second. When he clicked out and tried to open up another, it led him to a page screaming; this video cannot be located.

Nearly all the other links showed up the same and when they didn't, they were jumpy and unwatchable like the first.

He felt like throwing the laptop across the room. The boiling hot water in his body was bubbling out of control, the monster in his head roaring and screeching at the top of his lungs.

Sure, he had an accomplice who was good with computers and could try to fix this mess up. But he'd never seen the site this damaged before. Sure, sometimes it went down, but nothing like this.

It took half an hour for his entire computer to start wheezing and whirling, all the items and titles on his desktop mashing together into a hieroglyphic mess, the pictures pixilated and ruined. Whenever he'd click on anything, the whole computer would start clacking and clicking painfully and when he restarted the machine, it just grew worse. His cursor disappeared and then the whole screen froze up on a blotchy, neon-colored disaster of pixels.

He turned the laptop off and just stared at the black screen for a few seconds, heart in his mouth. The animal in his head was screaming for blood, scratching and spitting and writhing. He felt like he was going to be sick, the influx of salt and saturated fat he'd ingested throughout the day making his throat burn with acid bile.

Why was this happening to him?

He closed the lid slowly, feeling something cold and black fill up his head. It felt like there was water freezing his veins into icicles and his blood rushed in his ears. He needed music to calm him down...but of course, all his music was on iTunes.

He needed one of his boys to fuck.

Wait...

How many of his videos were only on the computer?

His heart started sinking lower and lower by the minute. He had a few hard-copies of his videos, some burnt DVDs and VHS's. But he didn't have one for everybody. He just couldn't afford it. He had the rest of them on USB but he wasn't going to stick it in his computer, knowing the virus would probably wipe that clean as well.

He certainly didn't have all of his top ten or even his top five on tape or DVD.

Giggle? No.

Tough Guy? No.

Squirmer? Yeah.

Muso? Yeah.

Kitten? No.

He didn't even have his fucking favorite for Christ's sake. He couldn't see him. He couldn't see any of them. They'd all been taken away from him.

Why did this always happen to him? Why did the world fucking despise him so much?

The icy-cold fury squeezed like a vice around his insides, drowning him in hatred.

That Smith guy had sent this.

That wasn't the person's real name...

Who had done it?

What if it was Cindy?

He needed to lie down. He felt like sinking his hands into someone's flesh and ripping it out in bloody chunks. He felt stabbing whoever did this in the eyes, gouging out their face, and splitting apart their lips and eyelids, felt like tearing out they're throat and breaking their teeth.

He had to lie down. He had to be calm.

If he ever found the person who'd done this...

...he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. It wasn't like he was going to tell people about how someone had stuffed up his gay pornography site. No-one was going to give a fuck. Most people wouldn't care less about a porn site disappearing off the net.

He had no real power over this person.

They were in total control here.

He had no-way to intimidate them.

...he felt like he was going to cry.

All he wanted was his boys back. They were all he had ever had control over in his life. The only people he'd ever been more powerful then, the only people who had ever been truly scared of him.

He lay back down on his stinking bed. He'd get them back...he'd get them all back even if it fucking killed him. He didn't care how he did it. He'd take them all down to his fucking grave if he had to, so they'd never have a chance to get away from him again.