Last night was different. I don't feel well. That is to say that physically I feel fine, better than ever, but I'm disgusted and sick in my heart and mind. It's like I said before, when he's here and with me it all makes sense, but when he's gone I'm left wondering what I was thinking. Even as I sit here writing this, I can feel him inside of me, and the doubt starts to dwindle. He's not coming tonight. He's in town, and he's laughing at something. The more of him I feel inside me, the less of me there is left. I'm fighting this. I know it's a lost cause; the moment his attention turns my way I won't want to resist, but for now I have to try. I have to get it all down so that when these words are the only thing I have left of myself, I'll remember who I was.
I'm getting ahead of myself. I will take up where I left off and tie the two ends of this tale together. After I woke up alone, a few days passed where I had the manor to myself. There was the one who brought me food, whose footsteps I could hear in corridors, but I never saw him. I spent my time exploring the house or reading in the library. I found what must've been an old ballroom on the second floor, with an expansive balcony from which I could see a garden below. The massive room stood empty, and there was a sense of sadness, as if the loneliness of this old place was magnified there. It should've been full of life, full of music and dancers. I tried to dance once, twirling across the empty floor like a child spinning circles to make himself dizzy. It was fun until I laughed, and the hollow echo of that sound brought home to me just how abandoned this place was.
It might strike one as odd that I didn't try to escape, but try to understand that I had never been surrounded by such opulence, and all of my needs were provided. The same couldn't be said of life on 13th Street, peddling my body for spare cash. I had ample food, cigarettes, and clothing. Whenever I awoke there was something clean to wear draped over my desk, and whatever I'd worn the day before had been taken away. I kept telling myself I would make a break for it tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Today, I would indulge in just a little more comfort and security. I would finish the book I was reading, and then I would go – but when I'd finish a book, I would always find another that appealed to me.
Sometimes, during the day, I'd take my book up to the balcony and read where I had a view of the garden. I never saw the gardener who so carefully tended those flowers and hedgerows. Like the servant who brought my food, he was a ghost, substantial only in what he left in his passing. At night, if Zeph didn't come, I would read in the library. Sometimes there was a fire already burning in the fireplace when I got there. Sometimes there was a smoking jacket draped over a couch, or a cup of cocoa on an end table. I would read until I couldn't keep my eyes open, then I would retire to my room and sleep until the sun pouring in through the window woke me up.
Then there were the times he would come. The first time, it was a complete surprise. I was in the middle of a bath, and he simply let himself into the bathroom. He laughed as I gaped at him, and he bodily dragged me out of the tub to meet my 'new friend' for the night. I was so startled, and so enamored of those captivating eyes, that it didn't occur to me to protest. He took me to an empty room lit by candles in silver sconces. The floor was bare, and in its center, a stood a man. He looked about thirty, with the strong build and calloused hands of one accustomed to labor. He just stood there, naked at the day he was born, tall and dark, hairy and big. Significantly big. He was already hard, and I couldn't help staring at his sizeable tool. It was long and thick, jutting straight up so that it almost lay flat against his taut stomach. It was repulsively fascinating, the way it twitched eagerly like a thing alive.
As Zeph and I stood on the threshold, the man looked at me, only at me, as if Zeph didn't exist. It was unsettling the way his eyes seized upon me, like he would tear me apart with only his gaze. His breath quickened, and his hands jerked at his sides as if pressing against some unseen restraint. I started to back out of the doorway, but I bumped into Zeph, who blocked my escape. He smiled at me kindly, kissing my cheek before murmuring, "Have fun." He didn't bother with introductions. He merely gave me a shove that sent me stumbling, dripping and shivering, right into the panting beast.
As if my touch had triggered some invisible mechanism, the man's arms came around me, and his hands clutched and groped roughly. I wasn't a stranger to being pawed at like a piece of meat, but something was seriously off here. He was like a man possessed, and I don't mean that metaphorically. Usually the kinky stuff was accompanied by some kind of talk. Gonna fuck you, boy, gonna make you squeal like a little girl. Yeah, I'd heard it all before. This guy wasn't doing that. He was mindless, thrusting his hips against mine like he was responding blindly to animal instinct. He didn't seem capable of realizing he was hurting me, let alone caring.
I tried to pull away, but he grabbed my hair and forced my lips to his. I bit him, and my hands clawed at his chest, but I might as well have been trying to move a mountain. The harder I resisted, the closer he held me, which made me want to resist all the more. Somewhere in the midst of the struggle, he grabbed my battering hands, and his mouth softened against mine in a kiss so eerily familiar that the fight in me drained away. "Shh," the stranger whispered against my lips softly, "It's okay, Eric. I won't hurt you."
I looked up to see his dark eyes alight with excitement and wicked amusement. I tried to pull away, looking quickly to Zeph, who leaned slack against the doorway, his eyes staring at us but not quite focusing. His head was tilted at an odd angle that reminded me of a marionette with the strings cut. I glanced back at the stranger, and he winked, grinning as though he was imparting some terribly clever joke.
There is nothing quite like the sensation of relief and terror melding into one within you. It feels like the floor has been torn away from beneath your feet, and you could swear you're falling, but you're not going anywhere. There is a brief moment, before the denial and rationalization kicks in, in which you know what's happening, and it shatters whatever preconceptions you might have had of a normal world. That moment only lasts the span of a few heartbeats, but it seems like an eternity, and all you can do is stand there and stare. Then all you can do is shake your head as your mind starts constructing sane explanations. This man was a friend of Zeph's, and they were playing a trick. Nicely choreographed and perfectly possible. I could believe that, and so I tried to desperately.
I'm not sure what sensation is supposed to happen next in this instance, because before it could come to me, his lips were on mine again, and his calloused hands explored my body. I let go of my hesitation. If this guy could pretend to be the object of my desire, then I could pretend to believe the ruse. That's how badly I wanted Zeph. I would abandon all reason just for the illusion.
We made out like desperate teenagers, tumbling to the floor, fumbling and pawing at each other, panting and gasping. There was no finesse to our lovemaking. I wouldn't even call it that. Animal rutting hits closer to the mark. In our clumsy grappling, I got him on his back, and immediately stuffed my mouth full of his cock, whipping my tongue along its length and sucking the purplish head. He groaned beneath me, running his fingers through my hair and shivering as he whispered, "I haven't felt this in so long. Don't bring me off yet, baby. I want to fuck you."
With that monster? I sat up, trying to catch my breath as I looked at him dubiously. He almost laughed, but it came out more like a needy groan, and he stretched out an arm, feeling along the floor in the shadows. "You think I don't take care of you?" he chided, then he sucked his breath in through his teeth as I ducked my head to give his shaft another tongue-bath. I can never get enough of that taste, the salty-sweetness of sweat mingled with precum. There was a bead of it welling up from his cockslit, and as I lapped it up greedily, I was rewarded with a low moan.
He pressed a small tube into one of my hands, and I reluctantly sat up again to look at it. Lube. I eyed him again and complained, "You're still going to rip me to pieces with that thing." Even so, I flipped open the cap and squeezed a bit of the gooey stuff into my hand, warming it up a bit before smearing it all over his dick. After I got him good and greased up, I worked the remnants of the lube clinging to my fingers into my ass, slicking up the passage a bit. It was sticky, messy business – exactly the kind of thing that gets me into the mood to fuck.
Tossing the tube aside, I swung a leg over his hips and situated myself to sit down on his cock. It was so hyper-erect he had to hold it out from his stomach so I could have a decent go at it. I admit I was trembling like a leaf. The damned thing was huge, and he was a strong guy. I couldn't help but think back to that initial surge of animal lust. If his control slipped, he could've really done some damage.
