Chapter 5: Girl Gone Wild
Tony lay spread eagle on the bed, his pants and boxer briefs still clinging to one ankle. Hammer was kneeling between Tony's thighs with a shot glass of dissolved coke, pulling it up into a needleless syringe.
"So," Hammer said, plunking the now empty glass on the bedside table, "tell me. Have you had a shit today? I mean, a really good shit?"
Hammer's grin made Tony want to punch him in the teeth. He already regretted coming here, wanted to pull up his pants and go back to his room, but nothing was waiting for him there except pay-per-view and the mini bar. He had the keynote address in the morning, and it was time to stop drinking. Tony sighed, resigned.
"I hate you so much," he confided to Hammer. Vodka had washed away the niceties. "You know that, right? I mean, you're such a charmless cretin."
Hammer's smile widened, "You've gotta tell me, Tony. It won't work if you're backed up in there."
"I'm clean," Tony admitted, hating himself, hating Hammer, hating the wasteland that was this fucking Dallas hotel.
"Then bottoms up," Hammer said, winking. With surprising dexterity, he hoisted Tony's legs up over his suited shoulders and thrust the syringe straight into Tony's ass. He depressed the plunger and then pulled the syringe out again in one fluid movement. This clearly wasn't his first rodeo.
"Put my legs down, you psychopath," Tony said, but Hammer shook his head.
"Gotta leave 'em up for a minute, let it absorb. Tell me when it hits." With Tony's knees still bracketing his ears, Hammer removed a glass vial from his vest pocket and unscrewed the cap. "I'm going to do a rail off your cock, Tony," he said, and looked at Tony with some twitchy, demented version of bedroom eyes.
"You what?" Tony barked incredulously. Tony's cock, showing no loyalty whatsoever, sat up like a dog that heard its name. Evidently taking this for assent, Hammer promptly shook a line down the shaft and sucked it up like a Hoover. He licked Tony once from balls to tip by way of a cleanup operation, and Tony was instantly on his elbows. He grabbed Hammer by the silk tie, firmly resolved to choke him with it, just as the cocaine hit. The tie, along with Tony's murderous intentions, slipped through his fingers as he fell back to the bed, flattened by a semi-truck of pleasure.
Hammer laughed and dropped Tony's legs back to the mattress, "It's good, right?"
Tony groaned.
"I make my guy bring the goods to my private lab," Hammer explained. He rolled off the bed and started to undress, beginning with the nearly fatal tie. "If the purity isn't there, I won't buy it, so he only brings me the quality shit. If you ever need the hook-up, just say the word."
Tony, his verbal abilities coming back on line, scoffed at the notion that he might ask Justin Hammer for anything, ever. "I never buy it," he said, with an air of piety that he recognized immediately as ridiculous.
"You know, I respect that," said Hammer, with ill-concealed condescension. "It takes a certain degree of self-control to keep stuff around without it getting out of hand, and it's commendable to see someone who can admit to their limits. It really is."
Tony set his jaw. He had to get out of this room before he put his fist in Hammer's face. Even the high didn't make Hammer bearable. He peeled himself up and sat on the foot of the bed, trying to straighten out his crumpled pants. His ass was numb from the inside out.
"Hey, hey, hey, now. Where's the fire?" Hammer slid an arm around his guest and sat down beside him on the bed. He was down to a pair of baby blue silk shorts. "The clothes are coming off, babe, not going on."
"You're delusional," Tony sneered.
"Have you ever been fucked with an ass full of coke? It's great. You'll love it. Do you want a popper? I have poppers. I have viagra—"
"You can't fuck me, Hammer."
"It's Justin, Tony, please. You want to fuck me?" The man was irrepressible. "I usually top, but—"
Tony, pants on, bounced to his feet with an alacrity he would never have managed before the coke. What had happened to his shoes? His room key? Where was his wallet?
"What on god's green earth makes you think I'd want to fuck you, Hammer?" he said distractedly, casting around for his lost things.
Hammer laughed, "I mean, you're in my room, Tony. I just poked you full of coke in my bed. Hell, you let me do a line off your dick." Tony ignored this; he'd found his key, but the wallet was still missing. He could abandon the shoes if necessary.
"Are you looking for this?" Hammer slid off the bed, holding up Tony's bifold.
Tony moved to take it, but Hammer's fingers remained locked around the leather; he wouldn't let go. He was right in Tony's face now and leaned even closer, his lips almost brushing Tony's ear.
"Do you know what the opposite of love is, Tony?" Hammer asked, with the total confidence of a man high on coke and his own bullshit.
"It is whatever I feel for you in this moment," Tony said through gritted teeth. "Let go of my wallet."
"No," Hammer said, shaking his head knowingly, "hate isn't the opposite of love. Hate is passion, and what is love if it isn't passion? Indifference is the opposite of love." His philosophical point made, Hammer finally let go of the wallet, and Tony stuffed it in his back pocket. Hammer smiled at him, still only inches away, his teeth blindingly white in his too-tanned face.
"You aren't indifferent to me, Tony. You want to fuck me senseless. And what are you going to do otherwise? Go sit by yourself in your room and get so shitfaced you won't be able to get up till noon? You're tomorrow's keynote speaker, and you're scheduled for 10:30. If you stay here, I promise I'll have you sober by breakfast." Hammer reached a hand between them, running his fingers lightly over Tony's fly. "Look," he said reasonably, "you're already hard from thinking about it."
This was all inconveniently true. Hammer encroached one more half-step, and his erection, straining against the blue silk shorts, bumped against the bulge in Tony's pants.
Hammer was appealingly svelte and handsome enough, Tony supposed, in a weaselly sort of way. His thick, caramel colored hair looked very pullable. Stop, Tony's brain cried, Don't! Come back! But of course, it was too late. What his brain really needed, Tony reflected, as he dragged one finger down Hammer's lean stomach, was a better braking system. By the time klaxons alerted him to danger on the tracks, he was almost always hurtling towards it with too much force to stop, even if he hauled on the brake lever with both hands.
Hammer tasted like Listerine, and his tortoiseshell frames dug uncomfortably into the side of Tony's nose as their mouths smashed together, teeth and tongues grinding. The brakes squealed in Tony's mind; sparks flew from the brake plates. It was futile. Collision was imminent.
Tony jerked away from the brutal kiss and planted a hand squarely in the middle of Hammer's chest, marching him backwards until the back of Hammer's knees hit the bed. If Tony was going to do this, and he evidently was, he wanted it over before the comedown. Feeling the mattress behind him, Hammer fell obediently onto his back, grinning smugly.
"I am going to wipe that stupid fucking smile off your stupid fucking face," Tony spit as he ripped off his suit jacket. He threw it on the bed and whipped off his tie. He thought briefly of leaving his shirt on (How much skin did Hammer deserve?), but it was brand new, and if it got bespattered with Hammer fluids, he'd have to burn it.
Meanwhile, Hammer had gotten his hands on Tony's waistband. Tony was on the verge of knocking him away just as Hammer got the zipper down and stuck a spit-slick hand down the front of Tony's boxer briefs. Tony's body, now firmly committed to the concept of fucking Justin Hammer, thrilled at the touch. Tony bucked into the contact and groaned.
Hammer wrapped his hand around Tony's shaft and pulled insistently, like he had Tony by the leash, until Tony had no choice but to follow the direction of force onto the bed. As soon as he hit the mattress, Hammer was stripping him, and his pants and underwear were off and gone somewhere on the floor. Hammer's blue boxers, the only clothes still in the game, sported a spreading blotch of precum. Hammer took them off himself, exposing a dick and a strip of groin several shades less orange than the rest of him, but Hammer didn't leave Tony time to dwell on it. His face was in Tony's lap, swallowing Tony's cock almost to the balls, his gag reflex apparently dead from the coke drip.
It was fascinating to watch. Tony had never seen his cock so far down someone's throat; if he could block out the fact that it was Hammer down there, he felt like a porn star. Hammer's mouth was hot and wet and soft. It made Tony think about fucking women, and he grabbed Hammer by that pullable hair and started to thrust. Tony wasn't careful or gentle, but Hammer only moaned encouragingly, apparently happy to let Tony fuck his mouth. It was extremely good, and Tony would have come down Hammer's throat if he'd been allowed. Hammer, evidently, had other plans, and drew away before Tony could climax.
"Tell me you want me," he said with a gleaming smile as his mouth came away from Tony's cock.
"I want you," Tony declared, aroused well past the point of pride.
"Say 'I want you to fuck me, Justin.'"
"I want you to fuck me, Justin," Tony agreed. Wait a minute, Tony's brain cautioned; the alarms were ringing again. Red lights were flashing.
Tony registered the sound of Hammer spitting, then felt fingers, wet with saliva, roughly stuffed in his ass. This wasn't what Tony had had in mind when he'd taken his clothes off. He knew he should say something, but suddenly his legs were back over Hammer's shoulders, and the blunt head of Hammer's cock was already pushing into him, simultaneously pushing out whatever protest Tony might have thought to make.
The numbness from the coke made penetration stupidly easy, just a blink and Hammer was fully buried. He immediately started thrusting, rough and deep. It should have hurt, but with the coke it didn't even feel like enough. Tony reached between their joined bodies, grabbing his own dick with a dry hand and pumping furiously into the friction. He wondered vaguely if he would give himself an Indian burn.
Tony chased his orgasm past the point of pleasure and then chased it some more, past frustration and into madness, the cocaine pushing his climax just out of reach for what felt like forever. It was Hammer, in the end, that saved him.
The hot pulse of Hammer's cock as he ejaculated, along with his ragged moan of long-awaited relief, shoved Tony at long last over the cliff's edge and into free fall. Tony's orgasm was phenomenal, a full sixty seconds of toe curling ecstasy so intense that he blacked out.
When he jolted awake a moment later, Hammer was leaning over him, shaking him by the shoulders, "Tony? Tony? You alright?"
"Quit shaking me," Tony groaned. He felt groggy; the coke high was starting to fade, and the martinis were beginning to reassert themselves.
"Thank God," Hammer blew out his cheeks with relief and fell back against the mattress. "For a minute there, I thought you'd had a heart attack."
"I'm fine." Tony struggled up to sitting. Rapidly cooling cum was sliding down his chest. "I'm going to go clean up."
He half-walked, half-stumbled into the shower and turned it on full blast, as cold as it would go. The icy torrent was sobering, as was the drippy slide of Hammer's cum down the back of his legs. Tony was already starting to hurt; he ran a hand gingerly down his ass-crack and then examined his fingers: as he feared, they came back sticky and bright red with blood. He let his head drop against the shower wall, cold water sluicing down his back, and sighed. This wasn't rock bottom, Tony knew; it was just another stony outcrop he'd hit on the way down the slippery slope, but the impact still hurt like a sonofabitch. He'd let Justin Hammer, of all people, shoot coke up his ass and fuck him bareback. And the real shame of it was that Tony knew the episode still wasn't finished.
He turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist before hobbling back out to the bedroom. Hammer had put on a pair of silk pajamas and was propped up in bed, under the covers this time, flipping through the cable channels, and drinking single malt. He smiled at Tony like the cat that had eaten the cream.
"You look way too happy for a man on the comedown," Tony observed.
"I did a bump while you were in the shower," Hammer admitted.
"I need one," Tony said bluntly.
"Tony, Tony, Tony," Hammer said, shaking his head as if disappointed, "I promised I'd have you sober by breakfast."
"Yeah, well, that was before I got my ass pounded by what feels like an entire NFL defensive line." It wounded Tony's ego to admit this, but he figured it would appeal to Hammer's vanity. " And now," he continued, "if you don't want to see a grown man cry, and I ain't promising it'll be me crying, by the way, give me some goddamn coke." Tony attempted some light menace on the last phrase. Turned out menace is hard to achieve while wrapped in a bath towel.
"I'm sorry, Tony. I just can't do it," Hammer said, shaking his head again and looking amused. And then, with a shock of clarity, Tony finally understood the joke.
"There is no more coke," he said flatly.
"No," Hammer agreed, "but I got you some Tylenol, and I poured you a scotch." He inclined his glass towards the nightstand on the unoccupied side of the bed.
Tony nodded, then gathered up his clothes in gloomy silence. Dressing was a torment; the pain was getting worse by the second, and he was increasingly stiff in his movements. Hammer watched him dress over the rim of his glass, obviously pleased.
Back in his wrinkled suit and ready for his walk of shame, Tony popped the Tylenol tablets into his mouth and started to chew. They were intensely bitter, and he washed them down with the whole two fingers of scotch. He set the glass back on the table with a thump.
"If it makes you feel any better," Hammer said philosophically, "I'm going to start feeling twitchy in about twenty minutes, but the comedown from boofing is actually pretty soft. You'll be fine."
"You set me up," Tony said dully as he limped to the door.
"I did, didn't I?" Hammer agreed pleasantly. "Good night, Tony. See you tomorrow. Can't wait to hear your little speech."
Tony told the tale with a degree of detail he would have avoided on another day. Then again, on another day, he wouldn't have told it at all. At first, he'd tried to make it amusing, a story about old hijinks, the kind that reformed junkies love to tell to each other at the bar, but the further he got in the plot, the blacker it became, until he began to suspect that maybe it wasn't a funny story at all.
Still, the narrative helped Tony hold a lot of strange things at arm's length as he washed his new body: the lack of hair on his legs, for example. Or the distinct softness of his midsection. Or the feeling of a vulva as he washed glancingly between his legs. The echo of strong feelings from the past covered the feelings he was having in the present, enough at least that he could squish them down into a corner somewhere to deal with later.
"So," he said, turning off the water, "I did manage to drag myself downstairs to give the keynote address, and just guess who was there on stage to introduce me, the little weasel. I was sober for the occasion; I'll give him that much, and he also ruined coke for me, which, I admit, was a service."
Tony's mouth ran down; Steve hadn't said anything at all for a while now. He'd lapsed into a stunned silence somewhere around the time Tony had described fucking Hammer's throat. Tony now suspected he'd said too much, but he had warned Steve, and Steve had taken his chances. Tony turned away from the taps, intending to get a towel and revive Steve from his swoon. He hoped he could find the smelling salts.
Tony actually felt much better, at least in the immediate physical sense. The mineral IV had done something (or perhaps nothing); eating lunch had definitely helped, and now he was clean. He was very much looking forward to wearing fresh pajamas and sleeping away the afternoon in his own bed, possibly curled up next to Steve if Captain America could be persuaded to do something as indolent as cat nap. And really, who knew? Maybe he would wake up and be himself again.
The light of the arc reactor filled the bathroom, catching Steve with its cold blue beam. Steve's face was stricken with equal parts guilt and arousal, and his dick was rock hard.
Steve tripped over himself in the dark, barking his shins on every piece of equipment in the shop as he trailed the swiftly moving blue light towards the door. He thought briefly about bringing the shop lights back up; he'd gotten his pants back on, but he was still halfway hard, and really didn't want to illuminate the fact.
"Tony! Ow!" he shouted, catching his toe on another hunk of metal. "Tony, do not walk out that door! That's an order!" He kicked himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
Tony had just ripped open the door to the hallway, and light streaked across the concrete floor. It was blinding after the pitch black, but Steve put up a shielding hand and charged down the lighted path to the doorway.
Tony rounded on him, spitting like a cat, "An order! You're giving me an order? Are you fucking kidding me? Please, please tell me how this falls under your official purview, Captain!"
Tony was wearing an oversized black t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh and nothing else. They were beautiful thighs. Steve kicked himself again; what was wrong with him, for God's sake?
"I don't know, Tony. I don't care. I just want you to stop," he said, blinking furiously as the hall light assaulted his dilated pupils.
Tony threw up his hands. "Court-martial me," he said, and proceeded down the hall at speed to the elevator. Tony stabbed a button and the door slid open. Steve bolted flat out down the corridor, just in time to get an arm through the door before it shut completely. He fell into the elevator as the door jerked open again.
"You can't go up to the penthouse," he panted. "There are at least twenty people there right now cleaning up from the party." The elevator shut once again and began its smooth ascent.
"Shit!" Tony cursed, "Of course there are! Why didn't you tell them not to come?"
"Me? I didn't book them! I don't have their number. I don't even know the name of the service."
"You know what? Whatever. I don't care. I'm getting off at 67. As long as you get off somewhere else, I'll be a happy camper."
"This isn't fair," Steve protested.
"What isn't fair," Tony spat, "is how violated I feel right now. I told you explicitly that the shower wasn't a come-on. And then you pop a woody for the Hammer thing? I mean, I recognize the story is sort of funny, but you realize that was probably the worst sexual experience of my life, right? I mean, it edges right up to the line of exploitation."
"Edges up to the line?" Steve said, flabbergasted, "Tony, the line was already ten miles back when Justin Hammer had sex with you. He picked you up because you were drunk and by yourself. He got you high so you wouldn't complain, and then he hurt you on purpose. Tony, sweetheart, Justin Hammer exploited you at every opportunity. You said it yourself: he set you up. There is nothing funny about it."
Tony was clearly taken aback to hear it put so plainly, and suddenly looked like he might cry again. "It actually sounds pretty bad when you say it like that," Tony said, his voice small.
"That's because it's actually pretty bad," Steve said miserably. He wanted more than anything to touch Tony, even more than he wanted to beat Justin Hammer to a pulp, and that was saying something. His fingers ached for contact, so he hugged his arms across his own naked chest.
"Then why," asked Tony, deflating a little more every second, "did it turn you on?"
"Because, Tony, you narrated your—I don't even know what to call it—your dubious sexual encounter like, like—"
"Like I was writing a letter to the Penthouse Forum?" Tony supplied, shame-faced.
"Exactly!" Steve took a breath, trying and mostly failing to rein himself back in. "I mean, you can process it however you want. It's your experience, but you have got to cut me some slack. Honestly, I was in denial about what I was hearing up until the end, as," he said pointedly, "I suspect, were you." A look of guilt settled over Tony's face; Steve had clearly made his point, but Steve didn't want to heap both portions of blame onto Tony's plate. There was enough to go around.
"Look," Steve said, shaking his head. "It wasn't just that. It wasn't even mostly that. It was mostly just you. And I should never have agreed to get in the shower with you. I knew I shouldn't, but I wanted to keep you company, and I thought I could handle it, but—"
Tony looked at Steve like he wasn't making sense anymore. Steve supposed he wasn't.
"You're gorgeous," Steve said, trying to make him understand. "You're completely gorgeous, and I figured it out at the worst possible time."
"I'm gorgeous," Tony repeated, clearly trying to wrap his head around it. "But…but I'm not me."
"But you are you," Steve stressed. This part was important. Steve didn't just have the hots for the new naked body parading around the tower; he had the hots for the new naked body because it was still Tony.
"Wait, wait, wait," Tony said, putting a hand over his face. The movement caused the hem of Tony's t-shirt to slip fractionally up his thighs. Steve felt sweat begin to gather at his hairline and prayed to God for the strength not to look. "You're telling me," Tony continued, "that after your unequivocal rejection of me last night, you now want to fuck me?"
Steve said nothing and wanted to die.
"And the time you pick to figure this out is when I am telling you a story about being hate-fucked by my nemesis, all while I'm trying not to go completely off into the deep end of gender dysphoria? That's what you're telling me?"
"But I didn't get to pick, Tony, that's the thing," Steve pleaded. "It just sort of happened. I was shocked. I really was. I tried to make it unhappen, but it's like the thing with elephants. Try not to think about elephants, and it's elephants non-stop."
"Only I'm the elephant," Tony said.
"You've got it," said Steve.
The elevator dinged, and the door slid open to the same unlit apartment from the night before. Steve's knit hat was still on the carpet by the sofa.
"I'm staying here," said Tony sharply, "and you're going. I don't feel good about any of this."
"Okay," Steve agreed, not sure what else to do. He didn't feel good about any of it either. "But listen, Tony, you stay in the penthouse tonight. Jarvis can tell you when it empties out."
"What will you do?" Tony asked.
"I don't know. Pack a bag and go to the apartment, I guess."
"You mean Brooklyn?"
"Sure," Steve shrugged. "I'll be out of your way until you want me to come back."
Tony didn't look happy with the arrangement, but he didn't argue, either.
"Look, I'm a phone call away," Steve said. "I'll come back whenever you want, day or night. Call me in fifteen minutes if you want to." He tried a smile.
Tony remained stone-faced. "Steve," he said coldly, "it'll be considerably longer than fifteen minutes."