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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 - 3. Chapter 3
At first, my hands used to shake when I mixed the heroin on the spoon. I was afraid of getting it wrong, afraid of spilling it, afraid of just about everything about it. Dale was real casual about it. But then, I found out he had been using for years. Since he was 19. He was 28. That amazed me—that he had been using so long. If you looked at Dale, you might think many things about him. You would think he was rough, a bit crude, a little slippery, and you might even suspect him of criminal activity—and you would definitely suspect him of being a little dangerous to be around. But looking at him and talking to him you would never suspect he was a heroin user. And as I found out, not just a user but an addict—and more. But you wouldn’t have known it by the way he acted. I suppose if you looked at his arms you might have known he used something. He had tracks, even I recognized them for what they were. But his arms were tanned and it wasn’t something you would see if you weren’t looking for it. And even though I had noticed, I never questioned. You didn’t ask Dale questions on things like that.
He was surprisingly patient with me. He gave me the things I needed, showed me how to mix everything, reassured me when he could see me start to panic because I was afraid I would get it wrong. Really wasn’t that complex. And the proportions didn’t have to be exact. Explained as gently as possible that this was not a science project—no grades would be given—and nothing needed to be precisely measured. Just enough water to dissolve the heroin from a powder to a liquid. If it didn’t dissolve clearly, add a little of the citric acid—and that was that. But how would I know if I used too much or too little? I was so afraid of doing it wrong. He would just smile and say that it wouldn’t dissolve if I used too little. If I used too much water, the world wouldn’t end. But I should use as little of the citric acid (which he had in powdered form—easy to get, used in canning and preserving and with all the farms around, the stores always had that in ready supply) as possible. Said the darker the heroin, the more it would take, but only use it if the water didn’t dissolve the heroin completely. This had me panicked. What would happen if I used too much citric acid? Well, acid was acid… not that great for the veins. He actually smiled and kissed me at that point. Said the look in my eyes was priceless. And that I worried way too much about little things.
And he didn’t complain too much when I burned my finger on the spoon and spilled everything all over the first time I mixed it myself. My hand was shaking so much I held the spoon too far down on the handle and when I heated the spoon, it got hot…SURPRISE! And I burned my finger and dropped the spoon. I could see him biting his tongue. But he didn’t yell, didn’t hit me. Just said I needed to stop being so nervous and maybe I should use a metal coffee scoop if I couldn’t control the spoon. I laughed a bit, since I had already considered a small pan and the stove. He laughed when I told him that. Said too bad I couldn’t make it up in batches ahead of time. And really, that had occurred to me as well. Said he could see I was going to be expensive as hell if I kept spilling it all over myself. Then he smiled and flicked my nose with his finger, not hard but it stung a bit. “But you can make it up to me.”
But it didn’t take me long to get comfortable with the mixing. Took me a lot longer to get comfortable with shooting up. Always had a vague fear of doing it wrong. Was never that good with tying that band around my arm. Most of the time I didn’t. Managed to find a vein without it. It wasn’t that the needle bothered me. I really had no fear of needles. But that part of my head that apparently really fears “doing something wrong” worried about accidentally putting a bubble of air into my vein and sending it to my heart. Mind you, I don’t even know if that is possible. I think I heard that on a TV program once. My dad used to watch a lot of medical dramas… might have picked that up from them. And every time I pushed the needle into my skin, I thought of it breaking. Of all the things I might have worried about, that should have been the last. But odd thoughts have always been my curse.
But I managed to get past that also. Amazing what you get used to and the fears you can put aside when something feels good. And it did feel good. Felt so incredibly good. It was an immediate rush of well-being. And that sense of well-being stayed with me for hours. Not that I walked around grinning from ear to ear. But I felt… It wasn’t so much what I felt, but what I didn’t feel. I didn’t feel the anxiety. I didn’t feel like something was hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. I felt calm, almost sedated—but not in an impairing way. Just sedated enough to feel nothing unpleasant. But then, heroin is a wonderful pain killer. Has other effects, too, but it is designed to kill pain. And it did. Killed a lot of pain. And made me not even realize there was pain to kill. It just put all those things that “bothered” me off into a side room and shut the door, locked it and tossed the key into the bushes. It was a nice feeling.
Dale never asked for any money. At the time I really believed it was because he just wanted to help, to make me feel better. He said that more or less on a few occasions. Not directly, but when he would give me a bag he would kiss me and tell me it was good to see me happy. And first thing in the morning, when he would wake me up to have sex—he would say it was nice to sleep a whole night for a change. Good the nightmares weren’t bothering me. I did ask him once, offered to pay him, said I didn’t expect him to just give it to me, that I knew HE had to pay for it. He just smiled and said if he needed the money, he would ask me for it. And he grinned and said it was a small price to pay for not being jarred out of a sound sleep by my screaming.
He never shot up in front of me. Don’t know why. Especially since he usually insisted that I do it while he was there. And at first, that was easy enough. I only used at night at first, just to get me past that anxiety, to numb me enough to sleep without nightmares. But then, I would notice that when I woke up in the morning I still felt not quite right. Like there was something at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite remember but something that was nagging at me. But I found if I did a hit first thing in the morning, that feeling would go away. Dale would make me wait until after he fucked me or after I sucked him off. He would smile and say it was my reward for good behavior. I always thought that was a bit funny: rewarding me for something I really enjoyed. Was sweet of him. Just another way he showed that he truly did care about me.
**
Things were pretty good for a while. The nightmares were just about gone. Oh, they popped up once in a while, but when they did I just took an extra hit and away they would go again. My job at P&C was going well. It wasn’t much of a job, really. But then, I had no real skills. I had once wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t really any good at it. And my poetry… well, no one made any money at poetry. Even if it was good poetry. I didn’t write anymore. Couldn’t see the point, really. My free time was spent living instead of sitting in front of a computer or sitting alone with a notebook. There were always people around at Dale’s. Would have been so rude of me to go off by myself. And Dale liked having me around. And I owed Dale so much.
The job didn’t pay much. I managed to pay my share of the rent for the apartment I still shared with Mark. And I managed to have enough money to drink and eat. Dale would occasionally ask me for a little money—when he was short. I gave it to him as eagerly as a puppy giving his master his slippers. Practically wagged my tail while giving it to him. Made me incredibly happy to give something to Dale in return for all he had given me.
Mark wouldn’t let me give him money towards the groceries. Said I hardly ate anything anyway so I should just buy whatever I wanted if I wanted something special he hadn’t bought. He would ask me about that sometimes, about my not eating much. He was a firm believer in eating. Had to have his meat and veggies—good farm boy that he was. He was raised to feed his body at regular intervals and a missed meal was just not something that could be allowed. He would look at me and shake his head and say that if I ever wanted to get my clothes from the men’s department I would have to actually eat from time to time. I would just roll my eyes at him and say that even if I ate as much as he did—which would mean I would have to eat from the moment my eyes were open to the moment they were closed—I would never grow to be as big and strong as he was. I would make a sort of joke out of it. Would play with the muscles in his arms and look impressed. He would blush, and I knew he actually liked it when I did that. And he would leave the subject alone for a while.
But Dale never let anything good go on for long. Seems he had a way with that. We would be having the most intense sex. I would give him head—and I mean a nice, long, slow blow job that would make his body shake—then I would suck him hard again and he would fuck me. He would fuck me hard and rough and I would be trembling all over from the pleasure and pain…and he would suddenly stop, leaving me groaning in frustration. If I said anything, if I made a move to pull him back to me, he would just say he had had enough, had other things to do.Didn’t I ever get enough? What a fucking slut I was sometimes! No wonder Paul got tired of me. I was never satisfied with anything, was I?
And I knew he was right, really. I wanted more from Dale than he could give me. And that was wrong, unfair of me. Because I knew that I couldn’t give Dale everything he needed. And he was always so kind about that, really. He would sometimes stop me in the middle of a blow job, say it wasn’t what he needed right then. Said he needed some pussy. He would smile at me and tell me it was ok. He still cared about me. Didn’t I know that? Didn’t he take care of me? I just wasn’t everything he needed. Wasn’t my fault.
That was why I tried not to let Chris bother me. She was more or less Dale’s girlfriend. Or seemed to be. Well, he would fuck her anyway—not sure if it went much beyond that. I tried talking to her a few times, when she was over and Dale was doing something else with Rob or one of his other friends. She would never meet my eyes. She would answer me, head down, her soft voice barely audible. Once or twice I would catch her smiling a little, when I tried to be funny, tried to get her to actually talk to me. But it seemed Dale would always come back at that moment. He would glance at both of us and then would choose which one of us he wanted and ignore the other. I usually hoped he would choose Chris, because when he didn’t, when he motioned me to his side she would sit there with the most lost look in her pretty, glazed brown eyes. And I could tell she felt pretty much the same way about Dale as I did.
**
When I spent the night with Dale, I would always wake up as soon as he moved. I would lie there, pretending to still be asleep, waiting for whatever Dale was going to do. If it was sex Dale wanted, he liked me to still be asleep when he started things. Occasionally he liked to wake me up easily, gently. But more often than not he liked to get right to whatever he wanted. Would grab my hair and put my head to his cock, or would push me over roughly and just start fucking me. After the first few times of being startled awake, of having a feeling of panic as he held me down and pushed himself inside me, I learned to wake up as soon as he moved. But sometimes he would just get out of bed and leave the room. I would listen, but wouldn’t get up—not after that first time. None of my business what Dale was doing. But I would still listen. Sometimes I couldn’t help but hear.
Chris would come over in the night sometimes. Never knew whether it was prearranged. But when she showed up I could hear Dale fucking her in the living room. Or, really, I would hear her being fucked. Dale was pretty much the same with her as he was with me. Liked to hear her scream, liked to hear her beg for more. Dale liked having his performance critiqued—liked to hear how good he was. And he was, very. But sometimes I heard something else in her voice. Sometimes I heard fear. And usually when I heard fear, I would hear the sound of blows, of his hands slapping her—of his hands more than slapping her. And I would hear her crying. Not while Dale was with her. But afterwards, when he had come back to bed and I heard her getting her things together, leaving. I would hear her crying. Dale never seemed to notice. That bothered me. It was one thing for Dale to hit me. I could take it. I was a man. But she was a woman, little more than a girl, really. It was wrong for a man to hit a woman. Everything in my being cried out against that.
I occasionally made the mistake of letting my feelings rule my better judgement. I never actually accused Dale of hitting Chris, or even asked him directly if he had hit Chris. But once or twice I said I thought I heard her crying. The first time I said that, Dale just growled at me and told me to mind my own fucking business—it had nothing to do with me. The second time, he told me, again, to mind my own fucking business—but this time backhanded me across the mouth. What was my problem? Did I want her? Did I want a little pussy for myself? Of course, he was immediately sorry. Said he and Chris were having a few problems and that he hadn’t meant to take it out on me. He looked into my eyes with those turquoise eyes of his. As always, they were concerned, contrite, convincing. And it really wasn’t any of my business. Chris wouldn’t keep coming here if it really bothered her.
But one time I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I hadn’t had a hit before bed and I was a feeling a bit in need, a bit on edge. Dale knew I was out and he hadn’t offered me any more. I didn’t ask for any. He had been in a mood all day. I didn’t know why, didn’t ask about that either. But I heard him with her. Being rougher than usual. Heard his hand hit her face—knew it was her face. Heard her words stop in the middle as I heard the slap. When he came back into the bedroom, I opened my mouth.
“Why do you hit her like that, Dale? She’s just a girl for god’s sake.”
The words were out of my mouth before my brain realized they were even formed. Dale stormed out of the bedroom. For a second I thought that I had gotten off lightly. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t hit me. Didn’t question why. Just breathed a little, thinking I had gotten lucky. Wrong. Within a minute Dale was back, dragging Chris behind him.
“You’re so worried about her. Here she is. You want her for yourself? Is that why you are so fucking worried about her?” He threw her on the bed. I just stared at him. I couldn’t even speak. Chris just sprawled out across the bed, shaking and crying. “How long has it been since you had pussy, Luc? Hmm? You want pussy? Tired of having my cock up your ass? Fine! You want pussy, here’s some pussy. Fuck her!”
“I don’t want to fuck her, Dale…” I started to tell him.
But he grabbed her by her hair. He suddenly had a knife in his hand. Pulled it from somewhere—didn’t see him do it. He held it to her neck—not her throat, her neck. “Sure you do. I can see it in your eyes, you fucking bitch. Go ahead. Fuck her or I’ll fucking kill her!”
I couldn’t believe he would actually kill her. But then, I wasn’t quite sure. Never quite sure of anything with Dale. But if I wasn't sure, it seemed Chris was sure. She begged me to fuck her, looked at me with those pretty brown eyes and pleaded with me.
“Do it!” Dale’s voice was hard and held something I hadn’t heard before.
“Please, Luc…” she pleaded with me. She took my cock in her hands and started stroking it. “Please Luc, fuck me.”
I fucked her. Felt like shit for doing it. Amazed now that I even could. But maybe he had a point, I thought. I wanted pussy. Wanted his girlfriend. Man, I was really low. I was never satisfied, was I? I was worse than he said I was.
But before I came he pulled me off her and threw me to the floor and fucked her himself. He told me I was a fucking piece of shit and to get the fuck out of his sight.
Of course, the next day he called me. Told me he was sorry. Told me to come over, that he had something for me, something he knew I needed. He wanted to make it up to me. Would I please let him make it up to me? His voice was concerned, contrite, convincing. And of course, I went.
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
He was surprisingly patient with me. He gave me the things I needed, showed me how to mix everything, reassured me when he could see me start to panic because I was afraid I would get it wrong. Really wasn’t that complex. And the proportions didn’t have to be exact. Explained as gently as possible that this was not a science project—no grades would be given—and nothing needed to be precisely measured. Just enough water to dissolve the heroin from a powder to a liquid. If it didn’t dissolve clearly, add a little of the citric acid—and that was that. But how would I know if I used too much or too little? I was so afraid of doing it wrong. He would just smile and say that it wouldn’t dissolve if I used too little. If I used too much water, the world wouldn’t end. But I should use as little of the citric acid (which he had in powdered form—easy to get, used in canning and preserving and with all the farms around, the stores always had that in ready supply) as possible. Said the darker the heroin, the more it would take, but only use it if the water didn’t dissolve the heroin completely. This had me panicked. What would happen if I used too much citric acid? Well, acid was acid… not that great for the veins. He actually smiled and kissed me at that point. Said the look in my eyes was priceless. And that I worried way too much about little things.
And he didn’t complain too much when I burned my finger on the spoon and spilled everything all over the first time I mixed it myself. My hand was shaking so much I held the spoon too far down on the handle and when I heated the spoon, it got hot…SURPRISE! And I burned my finger and dropped the spoon. I could see him biting his tongue. But he didn’t yell, didn’t hit me. Just said I needed to stop being so nervous and maybe I should use a metal coffee scoop if I couldn’t control the spoon. I laughed a bit, since I had already considered a small pan and the stove. He laughed when I told him that. Said too bad I couldn’t make it up in batches ahead of time. And really, that had occurred to me as well. Said he could see I was going to be expensive as hell if I kept spilling it all over myself. Then he smiled and flicked my nose with his finger, not hard but it stung a bit. “But you can make it up to me.”
But it didn’t take me long to get comfortable with the mixing. Took me a lot longer to get comfortable with shooting up. Always had a vague fear of doing it wrong. Was never that good with tying that band around my arm. Most of the time I didn’t. Managed to find a vein without it. It wasn’t that the needle bothered me. I really had no fear of needles. But that part of my head that apparently really fears “doing something wrong” worried about accidentally putting a bubble of air into my vein and sending it to my heart. Mind you, I don’t even know if that is possible. I think I heard that on a TV program once. My dad used to watch a lot of medical dramas… might have picked that up from them. And every time I pushed the needle into my skin, I thought of it breaking. Of all the things I might have worried about, that should have been the last. But odd thoughts have always been my curse.
But I managed to get past that also. Amazing what you get used to and the fears you can put aside when something feels good. And it did feel good. Felt so incredibly good. It was an immediate rush of well-being. And that sense of well-being stayed with me for hours. Not that I walked around grinning from ear to ear. But I felt… It wasn’t so much what I felt, but what I didn’t feel. I didn’t feel the anxiety. I didn’t feel like something was hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. I felt calm, almost sedated—but not in an impairing way. Just sedated enough to feel nothing unpleasant. But then, heroin is a wonderful pain killer. Has other effects, too, but it is designed to kill pain. And it did. Killed a lot of pain. And made me not even realize there was pain to kill. It just put all those things that “bothered” me off into a side room and shut the door, locked it and tossed the key into the bushes. It was a nice feeling.
Dale never asked for any money. At the time I really believed it was because he just wanted to help, to make me feel better. He said that more or less on a few occasions. Not directly, but when he would give me a bag he would kiss me and tell me it was good to see me happy. And first thing in the morning, when he would wake me up to have sex—he would say it was nice to sleep a whole night for a change. Good the nightmares weren’t bothering me. I did ask him once, offered to pay him, said I didn’t expect him to just give it to me, that I knew HE had to pay for it. He just smiled and said if he needed the money, he would ask me for it. And he grinned and said it was a small price to pay for not being jarred out of a sound sleep by my screaming.
He never shot up in front of me. Don’t know why. Especially since he usually insisted that I do it while he was there. And at first, that was easy enough. I only used at night at first, just to get me past that anxiety, to numb me enough to sleep without nightmares. But then, I would notice that when I woke up in the morning I still felt not quite right. Like there was something at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite remember but something that was nagging at me. But I found if I did a hit first thing in the morning, that feeling would go away. Dale would make me wait until after he fucked me or after I sucked him off. He would smile and say it was my reward for good behavior. I always thought that was a bit funny: rewarding me for something I really enjoyed. Was sweet of him. Just another way he showed that he truly did care about me.
**
Things were pretty good for a while. The nightmares were just about gone. Oh, they popped up once in a while, but when they did I just took an extra hit and away they would go again. My job at P&C was going well. It wasn’t much of a job, really. But then, I had no real skills. I had once wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t really any good at it. And my poetry… well, no one made any money at poetry. Even if it was good poetry. I didn’t write anymore. Couldn’t see the point, really. My free time was spent living instead of sitting in front of a computer or sitting alone with a notebook. There were always people around at Dale’s. Would have been so rude of me to go off by myself. And Dale liked having me around. And I owed Dale so much.
The job didn’t pay much. I managed to pay my share of the rent for the apartment I still shared with Mark. And I managed to have enough money to drink and eat. Dale would occasionally ask me for a little money—when he was short. I gave it to him as eagerly as a puppy giving his master his slippers. Practically wagged my tail while giving it to him. Made me incredibly happy to give something to Dale in return for all he had given me.
Mark wouldn’t let me give him money towards the groceries. Said I hardly ate anything anyway so I should just buy whatever I wanted if I wanted something special he hadn’t bought. He would ask me about that sometimes, about my not eating much. He was a firm believer in eating. Had to have his meat and veggies—good farm boy that he was. He was raised to feed his body at regular intervals and a missed meal was just not something that could be allowed. He would look at me and shake his head and say that if I ever wanted to get my clothes from the men’s department I would have to actually eat from time to time. I would just roll my eyes at him and say that even if I ate as much as he did—which would mean I would have to eat from the moment my eyes were open to the moment they were closed—I would never grow to be as big and strong as he was. I would make a sort of joke out of it. Would play with the muscles in his arms and look impressed. He would blush, and I knew he actually liked it when I did that. And he would leave the subject alone for a while.
But Dale never let anything good go on for long. Seems he had a way with that. We would be having the most intense sex. I would give him head—and I mean a nice, long, slow blow job that would make his body shake—then I would suck him hard again and he would fuck me. He would fuck me hard and rough and I would be trembling all over from the pleasure and pain…and he would suddenly stop, leaving me groaning in frustration. If I said anything, if I made a move to pull him back to me, he would just say he had had enough, had other things to do.Didn’t I ever get enough? What a fucking slut I was sometimes! No wonder Paul got tired of me. I was never satisfied with anything, was I?
And I knew he was right, really. I wanted more from Dale than he could give me. And that was wrong, unfair of me. Because I knew that I couldn’t give Dale everything he needed. And he was always so kind about that, really. He would sometimes stop me in the middle of a blow job, say it wasn’t what he needed right then. Said he needed some pussy. He would smile at me and tell me it was ok. He still cared about me. Didn’t I know that? Didn’t he take care of me? I just wasn’t everything he needed. Wasn’t my fault.
That was why I tried not to let Chris bother me. She was more or less Dale’s girlfriend. Or seemed to be. Well, he would fuck her anyway—not sure if it went much beyond that. I tried talking to her a few times, when she was over and Dale was doing something else with Rob or one of his other friends. She would never meet my eyes. She would answer me, head down, her soft voice barely audible. Once or twice I would catch her smiling a little, when I tried to be funny, tried to get her to actually talk to me. But it seemed Dale would always come back at that moment. He would glance at both of us and then would choose which one of us he wanted and ignore the other. I usually hoped he would choose Chris, because when he didn’t, when he motioned me to his side she would sit there with the most lost look in her pretty, glazed brown eyes. And I could tell she felt pretty much the same way about Dale as I did.
**
When I spent the night with Dale, I would always wake up as soon as he moved. I would lie there, pretending to still be asleep, waiting for whatever Dale was going to do. If it was sex Dale wanted, he liked me to still be asleep when he started things. Occasionally he liked to wake me up easily, gently. But more often than not he liked to get right to whatever he wanted. Would grab my hair and put my head to his cock, or would push me over roughly and just start fucking me. After the first few times of being startled awake, of having a feeling of panic as he held me down and pushed himself inside me, I learned to wake up as soon as he moved. But sometimes he would just get out of bed and leave the room. I would listen, but wouldn’t get up—not after that first time. None of my business what Dale was doing. But I would still listen. Sometimes I couldn’t help but hear.
Chris would come over in the night sometimes. Never knew whether it was prearranged. But when she showed up I could hear Dale fucking her in the living room. Or, really, I would hear her being fucked. Dale was pretty much the same with her as he was with me. Liked to hear her scream, liked to hear her beg for more. Dale liked having his performance critiqued—liked to hear how good he was. And he was, very. But sometimes I heard something else in her voice. Sometimes I heard fear. And usually when I heard fear, I would hear the sound of blows, of his hands slapping her—of his hands more than slapping her. And I would hear her crying. Not while Dale was with her. But afterwards, when he had come back to bed and I heard her getting her things together, leaving. I would hear her crying. Dale never seemed to notice. That bothered me. It was one thing for Dale to hit me. I could take it. I was a man. But she was a woman, little more than a girl, really. It was wrong for a man to hit a woman. Everything in my being cried out against that.
I occasionally made the mistake of letting my feelings rule my better judgement. I never actually accused Dale of hitting Chris, or even asked him directly if he had hit Chris. But once or twice I said I thought I heard her crying. The first time I said that, Dale just growled at me and told me to mind my own fucking business—it had nothing to do with me. The second time, he told me, again, to mind my own fucking business—but this time backhanded me across the mouth. What was my problem? Did I want her? Did I want a little pussy for myself? Of course, he was immediately sorry. Said he and Chris were having a few problems and that he hadn’t meant to take it out on me. He looked into my eyes with those turquoise eyes of his. As always, they were concerned, contrite, convincing. And it really wasn’t any of my business. Chris wouldn’t keep coming here if it really bothered her.
But one time I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I hadn’t had a hit before bed and I was a feeling a bit in need, a bit on edge. Dale knew I was out and he hadn’t offered me any more. I didn’t ask for any. He had been in a mood all day. I didn’t know why, didn’t ask about that either. But I heard him with her. Being rougher than usual. Heard his hand hit her face—knew it was her face. Heard her words stop in the middle as I heard the slap. When he came back into the bedroom, I opened my mouth.
“Why do you hit her like that, Dale? She’s just a girl for god’s sake.”
The words were out of my mouth before my brain realized they were even formed. Dale stormed out of the bedroom. For a second I thought that I had gotten off lightly. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t hit me. Didn’t question why. Just breathed a little, thinking I had gotten lucky. Wrong. Within a minute Dale was back, dragging Chris behind him.
“You’re so worried about her. Here she is. You want her for yourself? Is that why you are so fucking worried about her?” He threw her on the bed. I just stared at him. I couldn’t even speak. Chris just sprawled out across the bed, shaking and crying. “How long has it been since you had pussy, Luc? Hmm? You want pussy? Tired of having my cock up your ass? Fine! You want pussy, here’s some pussy. Fuck her!”
“I don’t want to fuck her, Dale…” I started to tell him.
But he grabbed her by her hair. He suddenly had a knife in his hand. Pulled it from somewhere—didn’t see him do it. He held it to her neck—not her throat, her neck. “Sure you do. I can see it in your eyes, you fucking bitch. Go ahead. Fuck her or I’ll fucking kill her!”
I couldn’t believe he would actually kill her. But then, I wasn’t quite sure. Never quite sure of anything with Dale. But if I wasn't sure, it seemed Chris was sure. She begged me to fuck her, looked at me with those pretty brown eyes and pleaded with me.
“Do it!” Dale’s voice was hard and held something I hadn’t heard before.
“Please, Luc…” she pleaded with me. She took my cock in her hands and started stroking it. “Please Luc, fuck me.”
I fucked her. Felt like shit for doing it. Amazed now that I even could. But maybe he had a point, I thought. I wanted pussy. Wanted his girlfriend. Man, I was really low. I was never satisfied, was I? I was worse than he said I was.
But before I came he pulled me off her and threw me to the floor and fucked her himself. He told me I was a fucking piece of shit and to get the fuck out of his sight.
Of course, the next day he called me. Told me he was sorry. Told me to come over, that he had something for me, something he knew I needed. He wanted to make it up to me. Would I please let him make it up to me? His voice was concerned, contrite, convincing. And of course, I went.
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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