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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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.
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.
Abuse and Addiction: A Tale Of Dale - 2. Chapter 2
Started right off spending a lot of time with Dale. I had no job then—I had lost it when I went on the three-week binge after Paul had left. Never “moved in” with Dale. Somehow that never came up. Probably was not what either of us wanted. Moving in would have implied commitment. There was nothing even remotely implying commitment in our relationship. But still, I spent a LOT of time with him. Mark kept up the expenses for the apartment. He had a good job and told me not to worry about it, he could handle it himself until I found another job.
I spent most days and most nights with Dale, though. He would have a few friends over to his apartment. Would all sit around drinking beer and smoking pot. I had smoked it before, but not often. Mark had never smoked it. He was dead against drugs of any kind. Would drink like any other 21 year old, but the good farm boy in him just didn’t see drugs as right. I used to tease him about it sometimes. He would just laugh with me. He had very strong views on drugs, but he didn’t inflict them on others—not even his best friend. And that is probably a good thing, now that I look back at it. Probably would have pushed me away from him a bit if he had gotten preachy over it. But he was always my friend, not my dad, not my keeper---well, not back then.
Have to say that sex with Dale was very good from the first time to the last time. Even got to great more than once. I suppose from my first sexual experience with Linda I had always preferred to NOT be the one in control. That had worked out well with Linda because she was 5 years older and new what SHE was doing—which I certainly had NOT when I had first met her. That and she liked to control things. Always knew exactly what she wanted and taught me exactly how to give it to her. And that worked for me, as well. Always found that more…satisfying. Even my fantasies were more of being controlled, being submissive. I suspect a person’s sexual taste is predetermined to some degree. Oh, I’m sure our experiences—especially our early ones—influence what we like. But I really think the basic instincts are programmed by our personality. Odd… considering in the non-sexual part of my life I am something of a control freak. But then, maybe that isn’t all that odd. Maybe I tend to want to control that part of my life because I can. Maybe I am making up for the part of my life, of my personality, that I don’t feel I can control—or perhaps don’t want to control? Hmm… could go ‘round and ‘round on that one for awhile.
But I guess what I am getting at here is that Dale played to my own natural tendencies. I suspect he was very good at reading people. Must have seen that in me right away. Sex with Dale was always rough as hell. Gave me exactly what I wanted—and then some. Even early on in our relationship, I could see where he really pushed that envelope, though. Really walked that line between rough and abusive. But that was what I wanted. And maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Maybe I’m reading more into him than he was. Maybe he just liked to fuck hard.
**
The nightmares had started up again about 3 days after Paul had left. They were old nightmares, familiar faces, familiar voices. I had them nearly every night before I had met Paul. Had them nearly every night for over a year. They had started about 2 weeks after the start of my senior year of high school. Sometimes the details were very specific. Sometimes I could see the faces, hear the voices, feel the blows, taste the blood. And it would be like I was there again. I could feel myself slipping into near unconsciousness. I could hear those voices distort, see the faces start to swim. And then… I would wake up at that point. I would wake up with my arms trying to wrap around myself, trying to hold myself. And I would be shaking, but not crying. Never crying from these nightmares.
But sometimes there were no details. I would just be alone in a room that echoed. A faucet dripped and every drip of the water from that faucet would sound like an explosion. And I would stand there with my ears covered. Then it would start… The feeling of being trapped. I would try the doors. They wouldn’t open. And the windows would suddenly be gone. I would stand there and shake, tears of frustration—and terror—running down my face. I just wanted to run, wanted to get away—but there was nowhere to run, no way to escape. I was trapped.
I would wake up from those dreams, often screaming—always crying, my body nearly convulsing with fear. These were the bad ones. The ones with the details I could deal with. They were concrete. I knew the faces, remembered the incident. It was real and focused and I could put it away once I woke up, after a little while. But these… they were just generalized fear and unbearable frustration. They pumped me full of all the adrenaline needed for the fight or flight response—and then held me captive, wouldn’t let me run, wouldn’t let me escape. There was nothing I could do. Everywhere I turned there was a blank wall, a locked door, no way out. THESE stayed with me long after I woke up. THESE dosed me with a sense of anxiety that I couldn’t quite shake. These stayed with me for days.
Paul had managed to quiet the nightmares. Early on in our relationship, I still had them. But as time went on, they became less frequent. And when I did have them, Paul would comfort them away, his strong arms around me, his lips in my hair, his voice soft and soothing. And even the faceless dreams would fade. Paul had managed to make me feel safe. Don’t know quite how he did that. But from the very first time we were together he gave me a sense of safety and of peace. Only two people in my life have ever given me that. Dale was not one of them. But Dale managed to find a way to quiet my nightmares.
**
Started spending nights with Dale. Not every night, but some. Most of the nights with Dale were basically the same. He would have some of his friends over and we would drink and smoke pot. He had a couple of friends that were almost always there. One was Rob—he was the rough-looking guy he had been playing pool with the night we met. Another was Chris—she was something of a girlfriend. Chris was very quiet—usually a bit strung out, I think. Didn’t know at the time what drugs she did, but even I—relatively innocent thing that I was at the time—could tell she was doing something. Rob was a pig. Had the manners of a pig. Had the mouth of a pig. No actually, a pig is much cleaner and nicer. He was crude as hell—more crude than Dale even—though at the time, I really hadn’t caught on to that side of Dale yet. He seemed to find me some hilarious joke. The pretty little toy Dale had picked up in the bar. Something for him to keep around in case Chris wouldn’t put out. Those were pretty much his words. Heard them many times. Dale would laugh and tell him to fuck off. But he never contradicted him. I think I noticed that then. But I didn’t pay much conscious attention to it. Still young enough to be a little embarrassed by being called a “pretty little toy” and saying anything about it would have made me have to actually SAY it. Just not something I could really do then.
Sometimes during the evening Dale would get this look. Sent chills down my spine. Good chills. He would usually be sitting next to me, even when Chris was there. I would feel his eyes on me somehow. Or maybe I picked up on the looks I was getting from his friends, sly, smug looks mostly. Amused looks from some of them, though. I think they found Dale’s relationship with me entertaining also—if not quite as hilarious as Rob found it. Made me wonder sometimes if I was anything more to Dale than a curiosity. Like maybe he also found something entertaining in me. But I didn’t wonder that too consciously. Well, I did if he wasn’t paying attention to me. Oh yeah, I can be very whiny and jealous when the mood strikes.
But when he got that look… I would turn to see his eyes on me. They would be very intense, those turquoise blue eyes. And he would put his hand on my back and just rub gently back and forth, like he did that first night. I would feel the warmth from his hand go right through me. Would give me a hard on almost from the first touch. Hell, sometimes from the first look. Dale had no shame. He would lean over and breathe into my ear and whisper “I want to fuck you.” Didn’t always whisper it that quietly either. And he would never wait for any response from me. I doubt he even thought for one second that I would say no. He would just stand up and take my hand and lead me to the bedroom…or the kitchen… or any room that was unoccupied. Of course, I wouldn’t have said no, never did say no. Don’t think I could have said no. Even if I had wanted to. Not with all his friends around. Would have felt…ungrateful? God! That is the first word that came to my head! What a WRONG word—but it is the one that applies nonetheless. I would have felt ungrateful. Was I grateful to Dale? At that point? Grateful to him for… what? Wanting me? Fucking me? Listening to me? Not leaving me behind like last night’s table scraps?
But whatever the reason, I never said no. I would just smile a little self-consciously and go with him. And he would fuck me. Man would he fuck me! Foreplay was not a word in Dale’s vocabulary. He hardly ever even bothered to undress me. Would just push my pants down, bend me over whatever was handy and fuck the living shit out of me. And he wanted me to let him know how it felt. Wanted to hear me moan. Wanted to hear me cry out. Wanted to hear me beg him for more. And I did. Not because he wanted me to, but because I DID want more. And I wanted him to fuck me harder--so hard I couldn’t tell pleasure from pain. And that was never a problem for Dale. He was always willing to give pain, always willing to put a little extra effort into that. I think he meant to give pleasure, as well. But I think he just assumed the pleasure would automatically be there. And I gave him every reason to assume the pleasure. My cries were never “Stop! You’re hurting me!” They were always, “Oh, God, Dale! Give me more, baby… Fuck me harder!” And when he would grab me by the hair and pull my head back and whisper harshly in my ear “You want hurt, Luc?” I would gasp and groan and say “Yes, please.” And he would make it hurt, hurt so hard the pleasure bled to pain and stayed right there.
But afterwards, when he would pull away from me and I would be clutching the bed, the counter, the chair, the wall—whatever was handy—he would come behind me and kiss the back of my neck or my ear, and run his hands gently over my shoulders. He would ask me softly if he had hurt me too much. And I would answer no, not too much. It was just right. Or sometimes, when I hurt so badly I really couldn’t speak, I would just shake my head, my eyes closed so he wouldn’t see the tears in them. And he would pat my ass and go back into the living room. I would sometimes hear their laughter, their crude comments. I would hear Dale’s voice, but never his words. Probably didn’t want to hear his words. And I would eventually join them. He would usually be sitting next to Chris by then. And I would just sit wherever and laugh at the lewd comments about Dale “giving it to me good, by the sound of things.” Dale would laugh, too. And I could see he actually enjoyed those comments. I would tell myself that it was just friends busting on each other. And I would smoke some more pot or drink some more beer.
**
It was always Dale that decided whether I would stay the night. Well, it was his apartment so there wasn’t really anything odd about that. It was never a case of “Luc, I want you to stay the night.” It was more a case of sex leading to more sex with breaks in between. If Dale was in the mood for a lot of sex, I ended up spending the night. No, he never said that in words. But I figured that out after a while. But at first, I really felt he just wanted me there, wanted me close. Didn’t question his motives or his feelings. Just accepted it because I really needed to believe that I was wanted—or at the very least, needed.
Usually I slept like the dead with Dale. Would usually be a bit stoned when we went to bed, or drunk—or a bit of both. And the closeness of his body to mine gave me a warmth I needed to sleep. Paul and I had spent nearly every night together—either at his apartment or Mark’s and mine—almost from the first time. I had gotten used to that, to having someone in the bed with me. When Paul left, I found I could barely sleep. I felt alone and exposed. And the nightmares had started up again almost immediately. When I slept with Dale, I expected them to stop. And sometimes I didn’t have them. But other times I did. Fortunately, most were the specific ones and I would wake up shaking and holding myself—but not screaming. Dale was usually asleep and I would just lie back down and move closer to him. Sometimes he would stir and we would have sex—he always wanted sex when he woke up. Sometimes he would just continue to sleep. Either way, I would fall back to sleep—eventually. Sometimes, though, I would wake up and he wouldn’t be in the bed.
Once I heard voices coming from the kitchen. I got up and threw some pants on and went to the kitchen. Figured I’d get something to drink while I was awake. Dale was there with someone I didn’t know. I asked him what was up. Don’t know why I asked, really. Probably just a reflex action. Didn’t really want to know, just automatically asked. Like you might ask “How are you?” when you say hello. Not like you really want to KNOW how someone is—it is just what you say. He glared at me and told me to go back to bed and mind my own fucking business. I just stared at him. I was still a bit disoriented from the nightmare and I couldn’t comprehend why he was yelling at me. He came over to me and backhanded me across the face. I raised my hand to my mouth. When I looked at my hand I saw blood. I looked at him and I know I must have looked shocked as hell. He pushed me from the room and shut the door behind him. He was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just not something I want you involved in.” He wiped the blood from my lip and kissed me very gently. “Didn’t mean to do that. You know I wouldn’t want to hurt you. If you had left when I told you… But I still shouldn’t have done that. I’m very sorry, Luc.” He looked into my eyes with those turquoise eyes of his. They were concerned, contrite, convincing. I felt myself smiling and he smiled in response. “Go back to bed, baby. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I stopped to the bathroom on the way back to the bedroom. I put some cold water on my lip. It wasn’t much. Just a little cut. I’d been hit much harder in the past. Not in a while, but still… It was nothing.
When Dale came back to bed, I pretended to be asleep. He kissed the back of my neck and started rubbing my back, his hands working their way down to my ass. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pressing his body against my back. His rubbed my chest, my stomach and then wrapped his hand around my cock. I moaned as he started stroking me.
He laughed, a deep laugh—I could feel it vibrating in his chest as he pressed against me. “Knew you were awake, baby.” He kissed my neck again, his hand continuing to stroke my cock. “You ok, baby?”
“Yeah, I’m ok.” I was ok. It was nothing.
“I’m sorry, Luc. I just reacted. Just didn’t want you involved.” He ran his fingers through my hair as he continued to stroke my cock, a little harder now, a little less gently.
“It’s ok, Dale. I know you didn’t mean it. And it’s nothing. My own fault. I shouldn’t have barged in on you like that. None of my business.” It wasn’t any of my business. It was his apartment. I shouldn’t have been so nosey.
He pulled on my hair a little. I was sure he didn’t mean to pull it quite that hard. “You know how important you are to me.” He whispered that in my ear, his breath tickling me, sending a chill down my spine. I turned my head a little, wanting to kiss him, wanting him to kiss me. He didn’t usually kiss me, not the way Paul had kissed me. Dale’s kisses—like so many other things about Dale—were mostly on the surface, a quick brush of his lips against mine. Paul’s kisses had been deep, searching, sensual even when they were casual. But that was ok. Everyone was different. But this time Dale kissed me—truly kissed me. He slipped his tongue between my lips and slid it along my tongue as slowly and as sensually as I could have wished. I moaned and slipped my arms around him. That night we came as close as we would ever come to actually making love. He brought me to my climax very slowly, his hand rough and tight on my cock one moment, then soft and gentle the next. That alternating array of sensations had me gasping and moaning his name against his lips. Then, when I had come, he turned me over and fucked me. Oh, he fucked me hard—he always fucked hard. But he wasn’t rough. There was nothing rough about it that night. And when he came, instead of just turning over and going to sleep, he held me. I lay there in his arms, my head on his chest, my swollen lip resting lightly against his nipple while he stroked my hair. He never said he loved me. And I didn’t think he did. But it felt close. And that was ok.
**
I began to stay over more frequently. It seemed Dale actually wanted my company in his bed. It seemed that maybe he wanted a little more from me than just a good fuck. Oh, he still wanted that. Our evenings were still pretty much the same, with his friends coming over, drinking, smoking pot, fucking me in the kitchen, or the bedroom or any other unoccupied room. It became a comfortable routine actually. Felt good, really, to have him make a point of taking me off to fuck me while his friends were in the other room. Felt like he was showing me off to them, showing them how much he wanted me, how much I meant to him. Gave me a sense of value. Who was I actually? No one. Yet Dale would leave his friends and go off and fuck me.
The nightmares still came. Expected them to die down, but they didn’t. If anything, they got worse. Couldn’t understand why. I was feeling pretty good. Had found a job at P&C. Nothing major, but it gave me enough money to pay my share of the apartment I still shared with Mark and I had enough left to drink and eat. And Dale was good, always let me smoke his pot. Never asked me for anything for it, not once. So all in all, life was pretty good. No reason I should have been having those nightmares so often. But I was. Couldn’t hide them from Dale. I tried. There were many nights I woke up in a cold sweat, holding myself, thankful that he was not in the bed because I was shaking so badly. I never made the mistake of getting up to go look for him, though, when I heard voices in one of the other rooms. Whatever was going on was none of my business. And obviously Dale didn’t want me involved in whatever it was. Just trying to protect me, he said. Protect me from what? I wondered. But I didn’t ask. Usually by the time he came back to bed I was ok, had myself under control. Sometimes he would ask about the nightmares. I had told him, that first morning, about them. But he wouldn’t push me to talk about them. Which was good, because I really didn’t want to.
But I was lucky. I hadn’t had the one that would usually wake me up screaming, not on the nights I had stayed with Dale. But one thing I have noticed in my life: luck runs out. We had gone out to dinner that night, Dale and I. Just the two of us. He was in a particularly good mood. Chris had come by earlier and my guess is she and he had enjoyed their time together. Chris was a nice girl. As I said, she was on something—was certain of that, just not sure what. And Dale didn’t really treat her that well from what I saw. But who was I to judge? What right did I have? And she kept coming over—just as I did. But whatever the reason for his good mood, I reaped the benefits of it. We went to the Best Western. They have amazing prime rib. They serve it with freshly grated horseradish, baked potato and glazed carrots. God! My mouth is positively watering right now! Had some nice red wine with it, too. Wine always relaxes me to the point of blissful idiocy. Drink too much of it and it makes me easy beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. There is NOTHING I will not do after 3 glasses of wine. Nothing. I think I had more than 3 glasses that night. But that was ok. Dale was hardly going to do anything to me he hadn’t done to me before—or make me do anything to him that I hadn’t done before. Somehow that gave me an odd measure of trust with him. But I had no reason not to trust him anyway. He had never given me a reason to not trust him. And he had given me much more than he had ever asked in return.
By the time I felt myself falling asleep, all of my senses had been taken to the limit of pleasurable tolerance. If I had been a cat I would have been purring. Not quite sure I didn’t actually purr. Might have. But I was calm, relaxed—well past the point of idiocy, and in no way expecting any nightmares to disturb my sleep. But it’s the ones that sneak up on you when you least expect them that are the ones that usually cause the most trouble.
I woke up screaming, literally screaming. My heart was racing, my body shaking uncontrollably, tears pouring from my eyes. Dale nearly jumped out of the bed. He touched my arm and I nearly went through the ceiling. Then he put his arms around me and held me tightly. I don’t know what he said to me, though I do remember hearing his voice. It was not soothing like Paul’s had been—but it was comforting enough. I did stop screaming, after a few minutes. He let go of me and went to get up. I clung to him, not wanting him to leave. I think I said as much. He kissed me lightly and said he would be right back. He was gone for the longest time. Seemed like hours. Probably was a few minutes. When he returned, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my body still shaking. He had something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what.
He sat beside me and put his arms around me for a moment. “It’s ok, baby. I have something that will help.” He let go of me and held out his hand. He had a syringe.
I pulled instinctively away from him. “What the hell is that?”
He laughed and flicked my cheek with his finger. “Nothing terrible. Not afraid of needles, are you, baby?”
I shook my head, but eyed the syringe suspiciously. I had ideas. I had seen the marks on Dale’s arm. I wasn’t completely innocent. But I had never asked him. Figured it wasn’t my business. Things that weren’t my business were better left unasked. But I had never done anything worse than pot. “Real” drugs scared me a bit. My one brother had died from an overdose when I was 12. Was never sure what he had been doing. My other brother had said he had taken a lot of things, said he had been taking them for a long time. But I didn’t know what had actually killed him—and that made me suspicious of everything. But then… he had mixed things. Bob had said that. Not one drug had killed him. Many drugs had killed him. And part of me… well, part of me probably didn’t care.
He rubbed my arm gently. “It won’t hurt, Luc. And it will help. Trust me, baby.”
And I did trust him. No reason not to trust him. He had never given me a reason not to trust him. He pulled my left arm straight and tied a rubber-band like thing around it—as if he were tying a tourniquet to stop blood flow (I had basic first aid skills). Then he felt for a vein. Found one easily. He pushed the syringe until a small drop of the liquid came out of the needle. Then he pushed the needle into my skin, into my vein. I winced a little and he smiled a bit. He pulled back on the syringe. I remember wondering why he was doing that—wasn’t the stuff supposed to go IN my vein, not my blood go into the syringe? As soon as he saw blood enter the syringe, he untied the rubber band thing and injected the liquid into my vein.
I could feel it. I could feel it hit my blood. It felt hot, burning. But not a bad burn, just a sharp one—one that seemed to spread outwards. It felt so good. Just enough pain to make it pleasure. I felt for a moment like I was on fire, like I might just burst into flames. And then it was gone. For a second I thought: Is that all there is? And I was vaguely disappointed. But then…. I felt suddenly like everything in my head was being lifted away. I felt a sense of happiness rush through me. Well, maybe it wasn’t happiness. Maybe it was more like relief. I felt relieved of everything that troubled me. That overwhelming sense of anxiety that had swept over me, left over from the dream, was gone. Completely gone. Yet I didn’t feel “drugged” in any way. I just felt incredibly “good.” I looked at Dale and he laughed. Told me later that I had such a look of wonder on my face I had looked like a little boy at Christmas.
When I did return to sleep, no dream haunted me. And when I awoke, I felt as though I had enjoyed the most peaceful sleep of my life. I remember Dale looking at me and smiling. “Told you to trust me, baby.”
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
I spent most days and most nights with Dale, though. He would have a few friends over to his apartment. Would all sit around drinking beer and smoking pot. I had smoked it before, but not often. Mark had never smoked it. He was dead against drugs of any kind. Would drink like any other 21 year old, but the good farm boy in him just didn’t see drugs as right. I used to tease him about it sometimes. He would just laugh with me. He had very strong views on drugs, but he didn’t inflict them on others—not even his best friend. And that is probably a good thing, now that I look back at it. Probably would have pushed me away from him a bit if he had gotten preachy over it. But he was always my friend, not my dad, not my keeper---well, not back then.
Have to say that sex with Dale was very good from the first time to the last time. Even got to great more than once. I suppose from my first sexual experience with Linda I had always preferred to NOT be the one in control. That had worked out well with Linda because she was 5 years older and new what SHE was doing—which I certainly had NOT when I had first met her. That and she liked to control things. Always knew exactly what she wanted and taught me exactly how to give it to her. And that worked for me, as well. Always found that more…satisfying. Even my fantasies were more of being controlled, being submissive. I suspect a person’s sexual taste is predetermined to some degree. Oh, I’m sure our experiences—especially our early ones—influence what we like. But I really think the basic instincts are programmed by our personality. Odd… considering in the non-sexual part of my life I am something of a control freak. But then, maybe that isn’t all that odd. Maybe I tend to want to control that part of my life because I can. Maybe I am making up for the part of my life, of my personality, that I don’t feel I can control—or perhaps don’t want to control? Hmm… could go ‘round and ‘round on that one for awhile.
But I guess what I am getting at here is that Dale played to my own natural tendencies. I suspect he was very good at reading people. Must have seen that in me right away. Sex with Dale was always rough as hell. Gave me exactly what I wanted—and then some. Even early on in our relationship, I could see where he really pushed that envelope, though. Really walked that line between rough and abusive. But that was what I wanted. And maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Maybe I’m reading more into him than he was. Maybe he just liked to fuck hard.
**
The nightmares had started up again about 3 days after Paul had left. They were old nightmares, familiar faces, familiar voices. I had them nearly every night before I had met Paul. Had them nearly every night for over a year. They had started about 2 weeks after the start of my senior year of high school. Sometimes the details were very specific. Sometimes I could see the faces, hear the voices, feel the blows, taste the blood. And it would be like I was there again. I could feel myself slipping into near unconsciousness. I could hear those voices distort, see the faces start to swim. And then… I would wake up at that point. I would wake up with my arms trying to wrap around myself, trying to hold myself. And I would be shaking, but not crying. Never crying from these nightmares.
But sometimes there were no details. I would just be alone in a room that echoed. A faucet dripped and every drip of the water from that faucet would sound like an explosion. And I would stand there with my ears covered. Then it would start… The feeling of being trapped. I would try the doors. They wouldn’t open. And the windows would suddenly be gone. I would stand there and shake, tears of frustration—and terror—running down my face. I just wanted to run, wanted to get away—but there was nowhere to run, no way to escape. I was trapped.
I would wake up from those dreams, often screaming—always crying, my body nearly convulsing with fear. These were the bad ones. The ones with the details I could deal with. They were concrete. I knew the faces, remembered the incident. It was real and focused and I could put it away once I woke up, after a little while. But these… they were just generalized fear and unbearable frustration. They pumped me full of all the adrenaline needed for the fight or flight response—and then held me captive, wouldn’t let me run, wouldn’t let me escape. There was nothing I could do. Everywhere I turned there was a blank wall, a locked door, no way out. THESE stayed with me long after I woke up. THESE dosed me with a sense of anxiety that I couldn’t quite shake. These stayed with me for days.
Paul had managed to quiet the nightmares. Early on in our relationship, I still had them. But as time went on, they became less frequent. And when I did have them, Paul would comfort them away, his strong arms around me, his lips in my hair, his voice soft and soothing. And even the faceless dreams would fade. Paul had managed to make me feel safe. Don’t know quite how he did that. But from the very first time we were together he gave me a sense of safety and of peace. Only two people in my life have ever given me that. Dale was not one of them. But Dale managed to find a way to quiet my nightmares.
**
Started spending nights with Dale. Not every night, but some. Most of the nights with Dale were basically the same. He would have some of his friends over and we would drink and smoke pot. He had a couple of friends that were almost always there. One was Rob—he was the rough-looking guy he had been playing pool with the night we met. Another was Chris—she was something of a girlfriend. Chris was very quiet—usually a bit strung out, I think. Didn’t know at the time what drugs she did, but even I—relatively innocent thing that I was at the time—could tell she was doing something. Rob was a pig. Had the manners of a pig. Had the mouth of a pig. No actually, a pig is much cleaner and nicer. He was crude as hell—more crude than Dale even—though at the time, I really hadn’t caught on to that side of Dale yet. He seemed to find me some hilarious joke. The pretty little toy Dale had picked up in the bar. Something for him to keep around in case Chris wouldn’t put out. Those were pretty much his words. Heard them many times. Dale would laugh and tell him to fuck off. But he never contradicted him. I think I noticed that then. But I didn’t pay much conscious attention to it. Still young enough to be a little embarrassed by being called a “pretty little toy” and saying anything about it would have made me have to actually SAY it. Just not something I could really do then.
Sometimes during the evening Dale would get this look. Sent chills down my spine. Good chills. He would usually be sitting next to me, even when Chris was there. I would feel his eyes on me somehow. Or maybe I picked up on the looks I was getting from his friends, sly, smug looks mostly. Amused looks from some of them, though. I think they found Dale’s relationship with me entertaining also—if not quite as hilarious as Rob found it. Made me wonder sometimes if I was anything more to Dale than a curiosity. Like maybe he also found something entertaining in me. But I didn’t wonder that too consciously. Well, I did if he wasn’t paying attention to me. Oh yeah, I can be very whiny and jealous when the mood strikes.
But when he got that look… I would turn to see his eyes on me. They would be very intense, those turquoise blue eyes. And he would put his hand on my back and just rub gently back and forth, like he did that first night. I would feel the warmth from his hand go right through me. Would give me a hard on almost from the first touch. Hell, sometimes from the first look. Dale had no shame. He would lean over and breathe into my ear and whisper “I want to fuck you.” Didn’t always whisper it that quietly either. And he would never wait for any response from me. I doubt he even thought for one second that I would say no. He would just stand up and take my hand and lead me to the bedroom…or the kitchen… or any room that was unoccupied. Of course, I wouldn’t have said no, never did say no. Don’t think I could have said no. Even if I had wanted to. Not with all his friends around. Would have felt…ungrateful? God! That is the first word that came to my head! What a WRONG word—but it is the one that applies nonetheless. I would have felt ungrateful. Was I grateful to Dale? At that point? Grateful to him for… what? Wanting me? Fucking me? Listening to me? Not leaving me behind like last night’s table scraps?
But whatever the reason, I never said no. I would just smile a little self-consciously and go with him. And he would fuck me. Man would he fuck me! Foreplay was not a word in Dale’s vocabulary. He hardly ever even bothered to undress me. Would just push my pants down, bend me over whatever was handy and fuck the living shit out of me. And he wanted me to let him know how it felt. Wanted to hear me moan. Wanted to hear me cry out. Wanted to hear me beg him for more. And I did. Not because he wanted me to, but because I DID want more. And I wanted him to fuck me harder--so hard I couldn’t tell pleasure from pain. And that was never a problem for Dale. He was always willing to give pain, always willing to put a little extra effort into that. I think he meant to give pleasure, as well. But I think he just assumed the pleasure would automatically be there. And I gave him every reason to assume the pleasure. My cries were never “Stop! You’re hurting me!” They were always, “Oh, God, Dale! Give me more, baby… Fuck me harder!” And when he would grab me by the hair and pull my head back and whisper harshly in my ear “You want hurt, Luc?” I would gasp and groan and say “Yes, please.” And he would make it hurt, hurt so hard the pleasure bled to pain and stayed right there.
But afterwards, when he would pull away from me and I would be clutching the bed, the counter, the chair, the wall—whatever was handy—he would come behind me and kiss the back of my neck or my ear, and run his hands gently over my shoulders. He would ask me softly if he had hurt me too much. And I would answer no, not too much. It was just right. Or sometimes, when I hurt so badly I really couldn’t speak, I would just shake my head, my eyes closed so he wouldn’t see the tears in them. And he would pat my ass and go back into the living room. I would sometimes hear their laughter, their crude comments. I would hear Dale’s voice, but never his words. Probably didn’t want to hear his words. And I would eventually join them. He would usually be sitting next to Chris by then. And I would just sit wherever and laugh at the lewd comments about Dale “giving it to me good, by the sound of things.” Dale would laugh, too. And I could see he actually enjoyed those comments. I would tell myself that it was just friends busting on each other. And I would smoke some more pot or drink some more beer.
**
It was always Dale that decided whether I would stay the night. Well, it was his apartment so there wasn’t really anything odd about that. It was never a case of “Luc, I want you to stay the night.” It was more a case of sex leading to more sex with breaks in between. If Dale was in the mood for a lot of sex, I ended up spending the night. No, he never said that in words. But I figured that out after a while. But at first, I really felt he just wanted me there, wanted me close. Didn’t question his motives or his feelings. Just accepted it because I really needed to believe that I was wanted—or at the very least, needed.
Usually I slept like the dead with Dale. Would usually be a bit stoned when we went to bed, or drunk—or a bit of both. And the closeness of his body to mine gave me a warmth I needed to sleep. Paul and I had spent nearly every night together—either at his apartment or Mark’s and mine—almost from the first time. I had gotten used to that, to having someone in the bed with me. When Paul left, I found I could barely sleep. I felt alone and exposed. And the nightmares had started up again almost immediately. When I slept with Dale, I expected them to stop. And sometimes I didn’t have them. But other times I did. Fortunately, most were the specific ones and I would wake up shaking and holding myself—but not screaming. Dale was usually asleep and I would just lie back down and move closer to him. Sometimes he would stir and we would have sex—he always wanted sex when he woke up. Sometimes he would just continue to sleep. Either way, I would fall back to sleep—eventually. Sometimes, though, I would wake up and he wouldn’t be in the bed.
Once I heard voices coming from the kitchen. I got up and threw some pants on and went to the kitchen. Figured I’d get something to drink while I was awake. Dale was there with someone I didn’t know. I asked him what was up. Don’t know why I asked, really. Probably just a reflex action. Didn’t really want to know, just automatically asked. Like you might ask “How are you?” when you say hello. Not like you really want to KNOW how someone is—it is just what you say. He glared at me and told me to go back to bed and mind my own fucking business. I just stared at him. I was still a bit disoriented from the nightmare and I couldn’t comprehend why he was yelling at me. He came over to me and backhanded me across the face. I raised my hand to my mouth. When I looked at my hand I saw blood. I looked at him and I know I must have looked shocked as hell. He pushed me from the room and shut the door behind him. He was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just not something I want you involved in.” He wiped the blood from my lip and kissed me very gently. “Didn’t mean to do that. You know I wouldn’t want to hurt you. If you had left when I told you… But I still shouldn’t have done that. I’m very sorry, Luc.” He looked into my eyes with those turquoise eyes of his. They were concerned, contrite, convincing. I felt myself smiling and he smiled in response. “Go back to bed, baby. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I stopped to the bathroom on the way back to the bedroom. I put some cold water on my lip. It wasn’t much. Just a little cut. I’d been hit much harder in the past. Not in a while, but still… It was nothing.
When Dale came back to bed, I pretended to be asleep. He kissed the back of my neck and started rubbing my back, his hands working their way down to my ass. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pressing his body against my back. His rubbed my chest, my stomach and then wrapped his hand around my cock. I moaned as he started stroking me.
He laughed, a deep laugh—I could feel it vibrating in his chest as he pressed against me. “Knew you were awake, baby.” He kissed my neck again, his hand continuing to stroke my cock. “You ok, baby?”
“Yeah, I’m ok.” I was ok. It was nothing.
“I’m sorry, Luc. I just reacted. Just didn’t want you involved.” He ran his fingers through my hair as he continued to stroke my cock, a little harder now, a little less gently.
“It’s ok, Dale. I know you didn’t mean it. And it’s nothing. My own fault. I shouldn’t have barged in on you like that. None of my business.” It wasn’t any of my business. It was his apartment. I shouldn’t have been so nosey.
He pulled on my hair a little. I was sure he didn’t mean to pull it quite that hard. “You know how important you are to me.” He whispered that in my ear, his breath tickling me, sending a chill down my spine. I turned my head a little, wanting to kiss him, wanting him to kiss me. He didn’t usually kiss me, not the way Paul had kissed me. Dale’s kisses—like so many other things about Dale—were mostly on the surface, a quick brush of his lips against mine. Paul’s kisses had been deep, searching, sensual even when they were casual. But that was ok. Everyone was different. But this time Dale kissed me—truly kissed me. He slipped his tongue between my lips and slid it along my tongue as slowly and as sensually as I could have wished. I moaned and slipped my arms around him. That night we came as close as we would ever come to actually making love. He brought me to my climax very slowly, his hand rough and tight on my cock one moment, then soft and gentle the next. That alternating array of sensations had me gasping and moaning his name against his lips. Then, when I had come, he turned me over and fucked me. Oh, he fucked me hard—he always fucked hard. But he wasn’t rough. There was nothing rough about it that night. And when he came, instead of just turning over and going to sleep, he held me. I lay there in his arms, my head on his chest, my swollen lip resting lightly against his nipple while he stroked my hair. He never said he loved me. And I didn’t think he did. But it felt close. And that was ok.
**
I began to stay over more frequently. It seemed Dale actually wanted my company in his bed. It seemed that maybe he wanted a little more from me than just a good fuck. Oh, he still wanted that. Our evenings were still pretty much the same, with his friends coming over, drinking, smoking pot, fucking me in the kitchen, or the bedroom or any other unoccupied room. It became a comfortable routine actually. Felt good, really, to have him make a point of taking me off to fuck me while his friends were in the other room. Felt like he was showing me off to them, showing them how much he wanted me, how much I meant to him. Gave me a sense of value. Who was I actually? No one. Yet Dale would leave his friends and go off and fuck me.
The nightmares still came. Expected them to die down, but they didn’t. If anything, they got worse. Couldn’t understand why. I was feeling pretty good. Had found a job at P&C. Nothing major, but it gave me enough money to pay my share of the apartment I still shared with Mark and I had enough left to drink and eat. And Dale was good, always let me smoke his pot. Never asked me for anything for it, not once. So all in all, life was pretty good. No reason I should have been having those nightmares so often. But I was. Couldn’t hide them from Dale. I tried. There were many nights I woke up in a cold sweat, holding myself, thankful that he was not in the bed because I was shaking so badly. I never made the mistake of getting up to go look for him, though, when I heard voices in one of the other rooms. Whatever was going on was none of my business. And obviously Dale didn’t want me involved in whatever it was. Just trying to protect me, he said. Protect me from what? I wondered. But I didn’t ask. Usually by the time he came back to bed I was ok, had myself under control. Sometimes he would ask about the nightmares. I had told him, that first morning, about them. But he wouldn’t push me to talk about them. Which was good, because I really didn’t want to.
But I was lucky. I hadn’t had the one that would usually wake me up screaming, not on the nights I had stayed with Dale. But one thing I have noticed in my life: luck runs out. We had gone out to dinner that night, Dale and I. Just the two of us. He was in a particularly good mood. Chris had come by earlier and my guess is she and he had enjoyed their time together. Chris was a nice girl. As I said, she was on something—was certain of that, just not sure what. And Dale didn’t really treat her that well from what I saw. But who was I to judge? What right did I have? And she kept coming over—just as I did. But whatever the reason for his good mood, I reaped the benefits of it. We went to the Best Western. They have amazing prime rib. They serve it with freshly grated horseradish, baked potato and glazed carrots. God! My mouth is positively watering right now! Had some nice red wine with it, too. Wine always relaxes me to the point of blissful idiocy. Drink too much of it and it makes me easy beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. There is NOTHING I will not do after 3 glasses of wine. Nothing. I think I had more than 3 glasses that night. But that was ok. Dale was hardly going to do anything to me he hadn’t done to me before—or make me do anything to him that I hadn’t done before. Somehow that gave me an odd measure of trust with him. But I had no reason not to trust him anyway. He had never given me a reason to not trust him. And he had given me much more than he had ever asked in return.
By the time I felt myself falling asleep, all of my senses had been taken to the limit of pleasurable tolerance. If I had been a cat I would have been purring. Not quite sure I didn’t actually purr. Might have. But I was calm, relaxed—well past the point of idiocy, and in no way expecting any nightmares to disturb my sleep. But it’s the ones that sneak up on you when you least expect them that are the ones that usually cause the most trouble.
I woke up screaming, literally screaming. My heart was racing, my body shaking uncontrollably, tears pouring from my eyes. Dale nearly jumped out of the bed. He touched my arm and I nearly went through the ceiling. Then he put his arms around me and held me tightly. I don’t know what he said to me, though I do remember hearing his voice. It was not soothing like Paul’s had been—but it was comforting enough. I did stop screaming, after a few minutes. He let go of me and went to get up. I clung to him, not wanting him to leave. I think I said as much. He kissed me lightly and said he would be right back. He was gone for the longest time. Seemed like hours. Probably was a few minutes. When he returned, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my body still shaking. He had something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what.
He sat beside me and put his arms around me for a moment. “It’s ok, baby. I have something that will help.” He let go of me and held out his hand. He had a syringe.
I pulled instinctively away from him. “What the hell is that?”
He laughed and flicked my cheek with his finger. “Nothing terrible. Not afraid of needles, are you, baby?”
I shook my head, but eyed the syringe suspiciously. I had ideas. I had seen the marks on Dale’s arm. I wasn’t completely innocent. But I had never asked him. Figured it wasn’t my business. Things that weren’t my business were better left unasked. But I had never done anything worse than pot. “Real” drugs scared me a bit. My one brother had died from an overdose when I was 12. Was never sure what he had been doing. My other brother had said he had taken a lot of things, said he had been taking them for a long time. But I didn’t know what had actually killed him—and that made me suspicious of everything. But then… he had mixed things. Bob had said that. Not one drug had killed him. Many drugs had killed him. And part of me… well, part of me probably didn’t care.
He rubbed my arm gently. “It won’t hurt, Luc. And it will help. Trust me, baby.”
And I did trust him. No reason not to trust him. He had never given me a reason not to trust him. He pulled my left arm straight and tied a rubber-band like thing around it—as if he were tying a tourniquet to stop blood flow (I had basic first aid skills). Then he felt for a vein. Found one easily. He pushed the syringe until a small drop of the liquid came out of the needle. Then he pushed the needle into my skin, into my vein. I winced a little and he smiled a bit. He pulled back on the syringe. I remember wondering why he was doing that—wasn’t the stuff supposed to go IN my vein, not my blood go into the syringe? As soon as he saw blood enter the syringe, he untied the rubber band thing and injected the liquid into my vein.
I could feel it. I could feel it hit my blood. It felt hot, burning. But not a bad burn, just a sharp one—one that seemed to spread outwards. It felt so good. Just enough pain to make it pleasure. I felt for a moment like I was on fire, like I might just burst into flames. And then it was gone. For a second I thought: Is that all there is? And I was vaguely disappointed. But then…. I felt suddenly like everything in my head was being lifted away. I felt a sense of happiness rush through me. Well, maybe it wasn’t happiness. Maybe it was more like relief. I felt relieved of everything that troubled me. That overwhelming sense of anxiety that had swept over me, left over from the dream, was gone. Completely gone. Yet I didn’t feel “drugged” in any way. I just felt incredibly “good.” I looked at Dale and he laughed. Told me later that I had such a look of wonder on my face I had looked like a little boy at Christmas.
When I did return to sleep, no dream haunted me. And when I awoke, I felt as though I had enjoyed the most peaceful sleep of my life. I remember Dale looking at me and smiling. “Told you to trust me, baby.”
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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.
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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