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- 10/20/2016
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Predator Prey - 4. Broken
There was a party in full swing. It was Saturday night, of course there was a party. Unfortunately for him, he was tied up at the moment. Quite literally.
Ordinarily, beer flowed, weed glowed, and in the shadowed corners of the suite, certain other very lucrative transactions were accomplished more discreetly. Normally, he was the one in charge, but not this time. He'd been hosting parties like this for years, almost since he'd arrived at the university. He'd been adept at bringing people in, priming them with alcohol and munchies, and selling them his wares.
The crappy quality weed he'd practically given away, but the higher quality stuff he'd charged damn good money for. And when the thrill of high class Blue Dream paled, he had a very closely held supply of far stronger chemical diversions, all for sale, for a price. Nobody blinked at the price. Nobody on campus – least of all the laughable gang called Campus Security – gave a shit.
Nominally, he was a Business major. Certainly, he made plenty of deals. He knew all about supply chain and marketing and the power of social media. Who needed Business Management courses? His business model had made him plenty of money, piles of it, and let him sample as much of whatever it was he wanted, when he wanted it.
And often what he wanted was someone's ass.
Of course, in Marketing 101, they'd burbled on about loss leaders. Items one gives away as part of cost of enticing customers to buy, and buy frequently. He'd figure out loss leaders a long time ago. Party favors. Even supposedly straight guys will fuck anything when they’re high and horny. And they were always both.
By the fall of sophomore year, he'd learned how to break a boy in. He'd troll for freshmen; he searched out the younger ones, always a little nervous, innocent and unsure, full of the tension between curiosity and caution about themselves and their bodies. By mid-terms it was a well-oiled system: lure the boy in, fuck the surprised innocent senseless, watch the kid try to deal with the emotional wreckage the morning after. He'd be there to pick up the pieces, soothe each one with a meal, some anodyne words, and some chemical supplements, of course.
But he'd never sleep with one of his party boys more than once or twice. The first time was usually the last time. It was business.
For a month or so, the kid would sell his ass – hell, the kid would sell his soul, he made sure of that – to be a party favor in the second bedroom. By then, the regulars would be bored with the kid, or the boy would be so fried he couldn't function anymore. Some got clingy, some got demanding, some got really weird. It didn't matter: he'd tell the kid that it was over and it was time to move on in life.
How they managed that was not his problem.
He'd broken his no-boyfriend policy with only one person--a guy named Marc who he'd seduced in February of sophomore year. Marc was different. Marc had a soul and a conscience. He could bend Marc, but he never really broke the dirty blond with the lithe body. The only thing to do with a guy like that was to get him as high as possible for as long as possible. This he could do.
And Marc's body was exceptional. A skilled soccer player, Marc had beauty, agility, and strength, even when totally wasted. He'd wanted Marc right away and had him often. He still sometimes wished for another night with that one.
But then Marc went to pieces that May. One of the other party boys had wound up in the hospital after a spectacularly wild night. The kid had overindulged in some of the more powerful drugs offered to him, or maybe he'd developed an allergic reaction. The boy was lucky Marc had found him lying unconscious and naked in the main room; luckier still Marc still possessed enough wit and strength to get to the University Medical Center. The kid eventually recovered, but something happened to Marc that night. He walked out the hospital doors, but he could barely function.
Marc disappeared for a long while after that, though he'd heard through the grapevine Marc had tried to piece his life back together again. Later, he learned the former party boy was back at the University; he'd actually spotted Marc in the library, looking much more somber, in the company of an enchanting younger boy who sported long black waves of hair that hung to his shoulders.
He'd spent a whole afternoon dreaming – scheming – about how to have them both at once.
Not that any of this reminiscence did his fogged brain much good now. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, aware of the loud metallic music playing, dimly aware of how it irritated him. He vaguely grasped his helpless state, now splayed out face down on the bed, with hands and feet tied securely to each corner of the bed frame. He tried vainly to work out how or when he might be set free. His neck ached, especially.
The door burst open, and the music doubled in volume. Light spilled into the dimly lit room.
"Holy fuck," a voice giggled, "you weren't shitting me." There was plenty of party noise – lots of people here tonight, part of his brain objectively observed. Other voices nearby.
He heard the clink of a belt buckle and the rustle of pants dropping over the sounds of the party. He might have sensed crinkling noises. Someone had thoughtfully provided condoms and lube – for the customers' benefit, no doubt, not his. Then, pressure at the back door, and the simultaneous sigh of pleasure at penetration, and cry of pain at being pierced.
A high customer was rarely a considerate customer.
And there were more customers. Plenty of them. He lost count at fourteen. He'd come himself, not voluntarily, sometime around number nine. Or was it ten? Later, when he tried to remember, he couldn't be sure they all used the protection offered to them. Several forgot to use any lube.
Things got pretty confused and hazy in his mind. He remembered peals of raucous laughter. Someone held his head back and made him swallow something. Pills, maybe.
One thing he vaguely recalled, very, very late into the night, was a figure who muttered "This is some sick kind of shit," as a condom was applied to a hard dick. The man lay full length on top of him, wrapping strong arms around him as he was fucked deliberately, purposefully, but not violently, as some others had done.
But what really impressed him was that this last customer took the time to untie his aching limbs from the bedframe and set him free. He didn't have the energy or the strength to move, not even to look up. Everything hurt.
"Thank you," he managed to whisper.
"No problem," rasped the stranger. "Some sick shit," he muttered again as he made his way out.
With some freedom left to his limbs, he moved, excruciatingly slowly, into a more comfortable position on the mattress. His ass was on fire, aching with the night's abuse. Every joint throbbed with hurt. Despite that, he somehow fell into an exhausted slumber until the cold light of dawn showed through the window.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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