CHAPTER 22
The phone rang. Stephen ignored it. Probably it was one of his clients, calling to ask where their monthly statements were. They’d been leaving messages for the past two weeks, at first mildly puzzled, then concerned, and now just plain upset. He didn’t even play the recordings anymore, letting them pile up until the machine, its electronic stomach bloated, vomited them away. The blinking eye of the message light was nothing more to him than an angry red beacon warning him to stay away. He was happy to oblige.
He opened the bottle of pills that now sat continuously on his desk and took two, washing them down with Diet Coke. The combination was vile, but he’d long ago stopped tasting anything. It was all cardboard to him. He ate resentfully, because his body demanded it, chewing absentmindedly and filling his mouth until whatever can he’d opened was empty.
He made regular appearances at his parents’ house, out of necessity, and had managed to convince them that everything was fine. He answered his mother’s questions, accompanied her on the occasional errand, and was in every way the dutiful son. As soon as possible, he returned to his house and to the computer.
The computer. It had become his refuge. There, logged into a chat room, he could forget about himself. He was no longer Stephen Darby. He was PoundCk. It was a silly name, but it amused him with its combination of sweetness that after a moment’s thought took on another, darker meaning. As PoundCk he prowled the various rooms, sometimes just looking, sometimes joining in, always searching.
Ever since his encounter with HrdAtWrk, he had waited for another meeting with him. But although he remained logged on at all hours and checked his buddy list constantly, he had yet to run into him again. He contented himself with other men, attempting to create with them the thrill he had experienced at the hands of his faceless partner. Sometimes he came close, but afterward he felt the disappointment of having settled for second best.
He couldn’t explain, had he been asked, what it was about HrdAtWrk that called out to him. It was something he feared, a seed of darkness that, once planted within him, had blossomed into a need that gnawed at his heart. He thought almost constantly about the leather-gloved hands, the excitement he’d felt in being forced to serve the cop. He knew it was a fantasy, but it didn’t matter. It existed in his head. It was real enough. And it was safe.
He never looked at his face. The bruises, midway through their healing process, had turned an ugly purplish-yellow. His lip, too, was a deep purple, and it was becoming evident that he would carry a scar there. He occasionally caught an accidental glimpse of himself in some shiny surface—the side of the toaster, a pane of glass, even the back of the spoons he dipped into the cans of chili and cold pasta he consumed. For a moment he would stare at the distorted, monstrous visage, not recognizing it as his own. Then, realizing that he was seeing his own reflection, he would look away in disgust and shame.
He knew he was a monster. Only a monster would do what he’d done. Only a monster deserved what he’d received. Only a monster could live a life of furtive searching for something so cancerous. After many hours of thinking through his experience, he’d come to understand this. Since then, an uneasy peace had settled around him. He knew what he was, even if he couldn’t face that thing directly in a mirror. He knew that, soon, he would have to try to slay the monster.
Until then, he searched. The pills helped him. They silenced the voices that told him to get into the shower, to get dressed, to return to his old life. They told him the truth, that he was destined to remain in the darkness, a pawn to be used for the pleasure of others. Each time he felt the pain returning, he held some of them in his hand, looking down at them as if beholding the secrets of the universe. He marveled that so much solace could be contained in the tiny spheres.
He no longer knew or cared what time it was. The clocks, like the answering machine, were meaningless. The hands swept around in an endless bid for his attention, but he ignored them. He measured his days by the appearance of familiar names on his computer screen. He’d memorized their habits and patterns: who favored the morning, who was on only during his lunch hour, who came out in the small hours of the morning.
These were his landmarks, the signposts by which he traveled. Although his destination remained out of sight, he moved ever onward. Thankfully, the pills did little to dull his sexual appetite. He was almost constantly hard, his hand never far from his waiting cock. Touching it reassured him. Coming was more refreshing than sleep. He jerked off half a dozen times in a single session at his desk, sometimes accompanied by someone in another room, sometimes alone, thinking about the back of the police car. The trash can, and now the floor, was littered with crumpled wads of tissue, the paper hardened into perverse origami by his dried seed.
But still there was no sign of his dark knight. That’s how he had come to imagine HrdAtWrk, a figure cloaked in shadow, sent to draw him deeper into the world he longed to live in. Only he could take Stephen by the hand and take him down the dim-lit alleys and dangerous byways of his own mind. Only he could show him the way.
And then, one night as he was battling the call of sleep and forcing his eyes open by staring at the blinking cursor on his computer screen, a miracle occurred. Hearing the familiar ding that signaled the arrival of a message, he turned his gaze to the box and saw there the name he had been waiting for.
HrdAtWrk: U R up late.
Stephen stared at the words until they blurred. He was afraid to blink, lest he open his eyes and discover that he had only imagined the message.
HrdAtWrk: U there?
He reached for the keyboard and typed back a response: Hello. It was the only word he could bring himself to write.
HrdAtWrk: Up 4 some fun?
Stephen’s hands trembled as he tried to compose himself. His fingers twitched anxiously as he replied: Anything you want.
He held his breath, awaiting his master’s response. He was captive, a bird held in the hands of a hunter. All thought stopped, and he heard only the beating of the blood in his head and in his cock.
HrdAtWrk: U R walking home late at nite. You pass a house, and in the window you see a naked man. He’s hard.
Stephen closed his eyes and began to dream. He was on a street. It was past midnight. He was walking quickly, wanting to get out of the darkness and into the safety of his house. The houses around him were dark, asleep, the occupants safe in their beds.
In one house, though, a light glowed. Noticing it, he stopped and looked up. There, on the second floor, someone stood in the window. A man. He was naked, his powerful body illuminated by the moonlight. His hand moved up and down a long, thick cock.
Ashamed, Stephen tried to turn away. But something about the man held his gaze. It was then that he realized that the man was looking back at him. His eyes met Stephen’s, and Stephen felt his heart stop.
HrdAtWrk: He motions for you to come up to him.
Stephen walked to the front door of the house. About to knock, he instead tried the handle. At his touch the door swung open into darkness. He saw a stairway, the top lit with pale light that tumbled down the steps, growing fainter until at the bottom it was only a flicker.
He knew the man was waiting for him up the stairs. He knew that he still had a chance to turn and leave. Instead he shut the door behind him and took the first step.
At the top, he looked into a bedroom. The man had turned to face him. He was even more beautiful and terrible than Stephen had realized. His thick legs were spread wide, his balls hanging down between them. The muscles of his chest rose and fell as his hand continued to squeeze his cock. He looked at Stephen and sneered.
“What do you want, faggot?”
Stephen licked his lips, unable to speak.
“Well? Tell me or get out.”
Stephen choked on his words. “I want to suck your cock.”
The man laughed. “Then get over here and do it,” he said.
Stephen walked toward him and dropped to his knees. The man’s dick taunted him, waving in front of his face as the man moved it back and forth. It was impossibly large. He knew there was no way he would be able to take it in.
The man’s hand flew out and hit him in the cheek. He gasped, surprised at the shock of it.
“Suck it,” the man ordered.
Stephen opened his mouth and obeyed. The man showed him no mercy, stuffing himself into Stephen’s throat. Stephen accepted it, knowing that his only purpose was to do as he was told. He sucked greedily, lapping at the flesh that filled his mouth.
After a few minutes the man pulled out of his mouth.
“Stand up,” he said.
Stephen scrambled to his feet, anxious to please his master. He found himself being spun around.
“Drop your pants.”
He did, exposing his ass to the man behind him. Then he felt a push and he found himself sprawling facedown on the bed.
“On your hands and knees.”
He assumed the demanded position, legs spread. He sensed the man behind him, and waited to feel his cock pressing against his ass. Instead, he felt a finger slide inside him.
“You want your faggot ass fucked?”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
The man slapped his ass hard, making Stephen cry out in pain.
“You don’t deserve to have me fuck your ass, faggot. Do you?” He slapped Stephen’s ass again.
“No!” Stephen bleated, biting his lip.
“That’s right. You don’t. But maybe I’ll fuck it anyway if you take what I’m going to give you.”
Stephen didn’t understand. Then he felt a second finger add itself to the first. His asshole stretched open as the man spread it. A third finger went inside him.
Suddenly, he understood. The realization filled him with horror. But it was too late. It had begun, and he had no choice. He felt the man’s hand squeeze together momentarily, and then a burst of pain shot through his insides as he was penetrated by the thick, hard fingers.
“What a good faggot,” the man said. “Your ass was made for this, wasn’t it, fag? Made for using by real men.”
“Yes, sir,” Stephen gasped.
The man pulled on Stephen’s balls, making the erection between Stephen’s legs slap against his stomach.
“I’m making you hard, aren’t I, faggot? Your fag dick is all stiff over me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man pulled his fingers out, leaving Stephen empty.
“Tell me you want the whole thing, faggot.”
“I want it, sir.”
The hand returned. This time the man pushed into him quickly. Tears came to Stephen’s eyes as he was invaded. He’d never known such pain. Yet he welcomed it, accepted it as his punishment for opening the door. He felt the man’s fingers curl into a fist inside him and push forward. He had become a puppet, controlled from the inside by the man’s hand and will. He was his to do with as he pleased.
“You’re mine, faggot. Do you understand that?”
Stephen nodded.
“I can do what I want with you. I could kill you if I wanted to. Do you understand?”
Again Stephen nodded. The man pulled on Stephen’s balls again until he cried out for mercy.
“Answer me when I ask you a question, faggot. Do you want me to fuck you now?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stephen, eyes blinded by tears of pain. “Please fuck me, sir.”
He felt the man’s hand retreat. He moaned, not for the relief but because he wanted more. He was dirty, a whore, and he knew it.
“Here’s what you want, faggot,” the man said as he shoved his cock into Stephen’s ass. “Milk my cock.”
Stephen let out a moan of joy. He was once again complete. With the man’s cock inside him, he was fulfilling his purpose in the world. He pushed himself back, impaling himself on the thick tool. He felt the man’s balls smack against his own.
Suddenly he felt something cold against his neck. The man had leaned forward, was holding a knife against the soft surface of Stephen’s skin. The edge bit into him.
“Keep fucking yourself, faggot,” the man told him. “Don’t stop or I’ll open you up.”
The man held the knife there as Stephen continued to move back and forth, the two of them rocking together. With each push, Stephen felt the blade threaten to peel back his skin. He felt the hot breath of his master on his neck, felt himself enveloped by the muscles of the man’s body as it covered his.
“You fags deserve to die,” the man said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Stephen whispered, afraid anything else would result in his being cut.
“You like having a real man’s cock in your ass,” the man said. “You like being a filthy faggot for me, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want me to come in your useless ass, don’t you?”
Stephen tried to nod. The man tightened his grip on Stephen’s throat. “Beg me to come in your ass.”
“Please, sir,” Stephen said as loudly as he could. “Please come in my ass.”
The blade pressed against Stephen’s neck as the man thrust several times, quickly and mercilessly. He let out a groan of triumph.
“Ooh,” he said as the first wave shook him. “Take it, faggot.”
Stephen felt himself blacking out as the man’s arm tightened like a vise around his throat.
“Take my fucking load.”
Stephen’s vision faded. He tried to breathe.
“Fucking faggot,” the man yelled as he gave one final pump. Then he pulled out. He released Stephen, who collapsed onto the bed, gasping for breath.
The man got off the bed. Picking up Stephen’s pants, he threw them at him.
“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” he said, holding up the knife he’d used and snapping it shut. “Now get the fuck out before I change my mind.”
Stephen jumped to his feet and fled. As he ran down the stairs, he put his hand to his throat. Where the knife had touched his skin, it burned as if he’d been branded.
The blinking of the computer brought him out of his reverie.
HrdAtWrk: See U soon.
He put his hand to his neck. Closing his eyes, he could feel the knife there, waiting to open him up and reveal his true self.
“See you soon,” he whispered.