Hello friends. This is part one of a three part story, with the second part already half written at the time of submitting this.
Warning: This story contains non-consent/reluctance and bdsm content.
The story: Dane identifies as straight, but has dissociative identity disorder, with his alter, Edan, forcing him into servicing men for its amusement.
Tags: #bdsm, #reluctance, #non consent, #bondage, #slavery, #control, #dominance and submission, #horror, #coming out, #first time, #anal virgin
Shout out to DeathAndTaxes and Amory Parks for beta reading and providing suggestions, and to DeathAndTaxes for editing (any typos you find in the following were made after her edits).
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My name is Dane. I'm a twenty-three year old straight guy from the South of England. Right now, I'm on my knees, servicing some leather-clad, hairy gay man, whose beard looks like a 1970s porn star's pubic bush, cursing myself to fuck and back. Because I didn't come here, to this back-country sex party. And I sure as fuck didn't get down on my knees and take this man's sweaty cock in my mouth after half a dozen beers, and what feels like half an E.
No. Edan did that, because Edan's a fucking whore, with a black sense of humour, and he hates me.
My name is Dane, and this is a story about how I discovered I have dissociative identity disorder, and that my other half—I wish that were a joke—is the biggest arsehole you've ever met, and he lives inside my head.
*
I was nineteen when Edan first turned up. Those of you who're observant, will notice my 'other half' did the imaginative thing, and rearranged the letters of my name to make his own. Edan, as it turns out, is a Celtic name, meaning 'fire'. Ironically, Dane is an English name, meaning brook. Fire and Water. Edan has such a fucking sense of humour.
It started small, as others have told me has been the same for them. Small patches of missing time. Cuts and bruises appearing, with no idea how I'd got them. And then, not long after my twenty-third birthday, phone calls and texts, from people asking for 'Edan', wanting to hook up.
Again.
At first, I thought someone had left my number on a toilet stall wall somewhere. Probably an ex-girlfriend. For some reason (thanks again, Edan), I seemed to go through quite a few. They rarely told me why they were breaking up with me, just broke off all contact. And when they did stick around long enough to give me a reason, none of what they said made much sense, and I chalked it down to the general insanity of women.
As it turned out, they weren't the insane ones.
So, I changed my number, thinking that would be the end of the odd messages. But no. I'd had my new SIM for less than a week, when another text arrived for 'Edan'.
Only two people had my number at that point. My best mate, Martin, and my parents. I count my parents as one unit, since my Dad never did learn how to use his mobile phone, and once landlines became obsolete due to the cost of calling cellphones, he relied on my Mum to contact the outside world.
I went round to Martin's house and banged on the door.
He answered wearing a sweat-stained singlet and a pair of sweatpants, and looked as if he'd been working out in the basement. He kept a weights set down there, and was obsessed with building up his 'guns'.
"Hey, mate, it's late. What are you doing here?"
I held out my phone, displaying the latest text for 'Edan'. It read,
'Hey baby, luved ur mouth on my cock last night. Can't wait 2 c u again! xx'
It was signed, 'Ray'.
"What the motherfucking fuck, Marty!" I said. "I just got this number, and you've already handing it out to whoever this comedian is?"
He took the phone from me and made a face that looked a lot like he was... and yeah, there it was. Like he was about to burst out laughing.
He handed the phone back to me. "Your alter ego catching up with you, mate?"
I frowned at him. "What are you on about?"
"Your alter-ego.
Edan.
" He said the name in this sing-song voice that, at the time, made no sense to me.
"Mate, I honestly have no fucking clue what you're on about."
"Edan. The guy who likes to suck cock?" he said. He was losing the mocking lilt to his voice as he saw my extremely bothered expression.
"Why am I getting messages for some guy called 'Edan', who likes to suck cock?"
He went pale.
"You mean it, don't you? You have no idea. Jesus Christ, please tell me you weren't off your face every time? Please tell me I didn't rape you."
My mouth dropped open. I stared at him, feeling the world lurch. The words 'rape' and 'you', were not words I ever expected to hear in a sentence directed at me.
Seeing my face, he said, "Fuck. You'd better come in."
He put an arm around my shoulders and guided me into the house.
As we stepped into the hallway I sniffed at him, inhaling his funk deep into my lungs. Christ, what was I doing? He smelled ripe as fuck, and I was sucking down his stink like he was baked goods fresh out of the oven.
"You like that?" he said.
I made a face and shook my head.
"You smell disgusting, mate."
He looked taken aback.
"You've never complained before. Okay, well, why don't you head up to my room, while I take a shower?"
For a moment I had an urge to ask him not to, but the images that flashed behind my eyes,
...his thick, sweaty cock and his heavy ballsack draped across my face, the stink of male musk, that faint whiff of piss...
... made me want to heave.
I sat on Martin's unmade bed, and picked idly at what looked like a patch of spilt mayonnaise on his sheets, thinking,
This guy. This guy needs to stop eating in bed.
And then I peered at it a bit closer. And by the time he came back from the shower, wrapped in a towel, I was nuzzling that patch of mayonnaise and licking at it like a dog.
"Dane!" He pulled me upright, and my eyes opened wide. I realised what I'd been doing, and did not, for one second, understand how I'd come to be doing it. Dane is not an idiot. But when Edan's in control, Dane is fucking brain damaged.
"What were you doing?" he asked.
"Finding out wherever there is comfort, there is cum?" I said, my voice loaded with disgust. But secretly, only at myself.
He sat down beside me, mercifully covering the damp patch I'd left on his filthy sheets.
He gave me a worried look. "So, how much of the last month do you remember?"
"Define 'the last month'," I said. I remembered quite a bit of the last month, but none of it included him 'raping' me, drunk or otherwise.
"Oh fuck," he said. "Fuck."
He got up again, and walked in a circle, a hand gripping the hair at the back of his head. He turned back to me, still wearing only a towel.
"This can't be happening."
