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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 - 6. Chapter 6
The drive home was a long one. No longer, physically, than usual. But it seemed it would never end. I just wanted to get home and take another hit. I really needed one. Needed to block the voice from my head. Needed to put everything away behind a locked door. I needed to forget everything that Papa Doc had made me remember.
It is a strange feeling to feel both numb and like an exposed, raw nerve at the same time. Part of me still felt that detachment. No, that wasn’t quite true. I didn’t still FEEL that detachment, but I remembered it. Remembering a lack of feeling. But I wasn’t remembering with involvement—I was remembering with still a further feeling of detachment. I was detached from the detachment. I remember going through this bizarre line of reasoning as I was driving 80 mph down the highway. I guess I wasn’t quite sure how I felt.
But then, some of the things I was feeling were raw and exposed—as they hadn’t been in years. I hadn’t felt like nothing, like no one in a long time. Not since the first night Paul had held me in his arms. Not even Dale had given me that feeling. Dale never made me feel like no one. I knew I had value to Dale. He wasn’t always the best at expressing it. And he had a temper and would sometimes lose it with me. But in every case, every time he had hit me, I had done something wrong, had overstepped my boundaries. And he always felt so bad afterwards. Always made it up to me.
But Papa Doc had made me remember how it felt to feel like nothing, like there was no me.
Dale took the package from me and tossed it on the kitchen table. He grabbed my shoulders and I could feel his eyes boring into me. Could feel, not see. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to meet his eyes. I didn’t want him to see what was behind them. But, of course, Dale had an instinct that always told him when to take a closer look.
He put a hand roughly under my chin and raised my face to look up at him. I could see him noting my cut lip and the bruising that had already formed under my eyes. My nose was most likely broken, could feel that. Knew what it felt like. Had been broken before.
“What the fuck happened?” he demanded harshly. He didn’t wait for me to answer. He released me abruptly, with a slight push. I fell back against the door and nearly fell.
“Take a goddamed hit, will you? You look like fucking shit.” He turned and stalked from the room. I sat at the kitchen table and did as I was told. Would have anyway. I needed one so badly. I could hear Dale’s voice on the phone as I dissolved the heroin on the spoon. My hands were shaking and I spilled more of it than I actually managed to keep on the spoon. I cursed because it was GOOD shit—nearly pure by the look of it—and by how it had felt when I had shot up at Papa Doc’s. I couldn’t make out what Dale was saying on the phone, but I thought I heard him laughing a little. But I may have been mistaken. And by the time Dale came back into the kitchen, I didn’t care. The heroin was already working its magic on me. It is a damned fine pain killer. My lip didn’t hurt—barely noticed it. And the pain from my nose felt dull, not really like pain at all. And the rest—well, that was well on its way to being locked behind a door, put away nice and tidy once more.
Dale sat down beside and covered one of my hands with his. “Papa Doc told me what happened, baby.” He reached out and ran a finger over my cut lip. I didn’t feel it. “Told me you and he had a little misunderstanding, but that everything worked out just fine.” He smiled and ran a finger over my nose. “Looks broken. Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No, it’s not that bad.” He knew I would say that.
He leaned forward and kissed me. “Papa Doc really likes you, baby. Told me you took care of him real good again.” His expression got very serious, and his voice held a warning that was unmistakable. “Like I have told you before, Papa Doc’s a dangerous man, Luc. Has always dealt fairly with me, but I have no illusions. He would kill you as soon as look at you if he wanted to. Having him like you is a good thing.”
He looked at the bag on the table, and at the spilled liquid. He smiled and shook his head. “He gave you some of his own shit, I see. Must REALLY like you then.” He flicked my nose with his finger, flicked it hard. I felt it, even through the heroin. “Try not to waste it, baby.”
I looked at him, looked into his turquoise eyes. They were concerned, contrite, convincing. I smiled a smile I didn’t quite feel.
Dale grinned and stood up, pulling me up with him. “Ok, then. You look like you could use a shower and then I think a nice soft bed?” The meaning in his voice was clear. It wasn’t really about what I could use, but what he wanted. But I wanted it, too.
We showered together and I gave him a blow job. I loved to do that in the shower. Loved the taste of the water on his skin. Afterwards, when we went to the bed, Dale was sweet, kind. He fucked me gently, almost made love to me. And I found for the very first time that it wasn’t enough for me. Oh, he made me come. He always made me come. But I wasn’t truly satisfied. And as I lay there staring up at the ceiling, listening to Dale’s steady breathing as he slept, I figured out why. Gentle sex meant love. Gentle, tender, loving sex was what I had with Paul. I had loved Paul. I didn’t love Dale. I needed Dale. I was addicted to Dale—as addicted to Dale as I was to the heroin. But I didn’t love Dale.
.
**
The heroin Papa Doc gave me was good. Real good. Much better than the stuff Dale gave me. Could have used a lot less, made it last a lot longer, and have gotten the same effect, the same relief. But I didn’t. I won’t say it didn’t occur to me. It did. Briefly. But I didn’t want to. Plain and simple. I liked how Papa Doc’s shit made me feel. Or I guess, really, I liked how it made me NOT feel. It put more distance between me and those things that nagged at the edges of my consciousness. It put bigger locks on the doors to those rooms where I kept everything put away. So I used it just as I had used the stuff Dale had given me.
The problem was, of course, that it didn’t last very long that way. And when I ran out, I had to use whatever Dale gave me. And Dale loved that. I see that now. I didn’t see it then. Then all I saw was that Dale would give me whatever I needed whenever I needed it. He never said anything when I started needing more. He just gave me what I needed, whatever I asked for, whenever I asked for it. And in return, I kept running for him. It was a fair trade. I got what I wanted, he got what he wanted, and Papa Doc got what he wanted. Everyone was happy.
But Dale would run low toward the end of the week. He had a lot of clients, he would say with a smile. That was a good thing. Business was good. And I kept asking him for more and more, he would say with a smile. But sometimes he just couldn’t give me what I wanted when I wanted it. “Nothing I can do, baby,” he would say. “I have to take care of my paying clients first. Just good business, that’s all. But you know I’ll make it up to you.”
So most of the time, by the time I went to see Papa Doc I was hurting, hurting so badly that I would have done anything for a hit. And Papa Doc would be there with what I wanted. It got to be a routine, really. Papa Doc would laugh when he saw me, when he saw how shaky and sick I was. He would shake his head and comment on how Da-bo wasn’t taking care of me properly. Then Ramon or Tyrell would bring me a syringe with some of Papa Doc’s own in it and I would shoot up. Like I said, it was good. I would feel better pretty much immediately. So much better that I sometimes didn’t wait for Papa Doc to undo his pants. Sometimes I just went right ahead and did that for him.
“That’s right, boy, you take care of Papa Doc and Papa Doc will take care of you.” He would always say the same thing.
And then he would take a bag out of his pocket and hold it up, examine it, turn it over in his hand. “Man, this is good shit I got this week, boy. Anybody but you would be paying big bucks for this shit.” He would hold his hand out to me, the bag practically under my nose. “You want it, boy?”
I would nod, still on my knees. “Yes, please, Papa Doc.” I knew how to use my voice, would make it soft, submissive. And I would look up at him with eyes that said, “Yes, I want it, more than anything in the world. And you know I will do anything you want if you give it to me.”
And he would bend me over the back of the couch, always over the back of the couch, and he would fuck me. And it wasn’t a big deal. Most of the time I would just separate, detach from myself. Was easy enough to do. Could do it and still give Papa Doc all the positive feedback he liked.
“Oh Papa Doc! That’s so good! Please fuck me harder, Papa Doc.”
“You like my big black cock up your ass, boy?”
“You know I do, Papa Doc. You know I love how you fuck me, Papa Doc.”
But I felt nothing, nothing beyond the physical pounding of Papa Doc’s cock in my ass.
And afterwards, he would give me that bag of the “good shit.” And sometimes I would take a hit of it as soon as I got to my car. Just a small one. Just enough to make those locks on those doors just a little bit bigger. Just enough to get me home.
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
It is a strange feeling to feel both numb and like an exposed, raw nerve at the same time. Part of me still felt that detachment. No, that wasn’t quite true. I didn’t still FEEL that detachment, but I remembered it. Remembering a lack of feeling. But I wasn’t remembering with involvement—I was remembering with still a further feeling of detachment. I was detached from the detachment. I remember going through this bizarre line of reasoning as I was driving 80 mph down the highway. I guess I wasn’t quite sure how I felt.
But then, some of the things I was feeling were raw and exposed—as they hadn’t been in years. I hadn’t felt like nothing, like no one in a long time. Not since the first night Paul had held me in his arms. Not even Dale had given me that feeling. Dale never made me feel like no one. I knew I had value to Dale. He wasn’t always the best at expressing it. And he had a temper and would sometimes lose it with me. But in every case, every time he had hit me, I had done something wrong, had overstepped my boundaries. And he always felt so bad afterwards. Always made it up to me.
But Papa Doc had made me remember how it felt to feel like nothing, like there was no me.
Dale took the package from me and tossed it on the kitchen table. He grabbed my shoulders and I could feel his eyes boring into me. Could feel, not see. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to meet his eyes. I didn’t want him to see what was behind them. But, of course, Dale had an instinct that always told him when to take a closer look.
He put a hand roughly under my chin and raised my face to look up at him. I could see him noting my cut lip and the bruising that had already formed under my eyes. My nose was most likely broken, could feel that. Knew what it felt like. Had been broken before.
“What the fuck happened?” he demanded harshly. He didn’t wait for me to answer. He released me abruptly, with a slight push. I fell back against the door and nearly fell.
“Take a goddamed hit, will you? You look like fucking shit.” He turned and stalked from the room. I sat at the kitchen table and did as I was told. Would have anyway. I needed one so badly. I could hear Dale’s voice on the phone as I dissolved the heroin on the spoon. My hands were shaking and I spilled more of it than I actually managed to keep on the spoon. I cursed because it was GOOD shit—nearly pure by the look of it—and by how it had felt when I had shot up at Papa Doc’s. I couldn’t make out what Dale was saying on the phone, but I thought I heard him laughing a little. But I may have been mistaken. And by the time Dale came back into the kitchen, I didn’t care. The heroin was already working its magic on me. It is a damned fine pain killer. My lip didn’t hurt—barely noticed it. And the pain from my nose felt dull, not really like pain at all. And the rest—well, that was well on its way to being locked behind a door, put away nice and tidy once more.
Dale sat down beside and covered one of my hands with his. “Papa Doc told me what happened, baby.” He reached out and ran a finger over my cut lip. I didn’t feel it. “Told me you and he had a little misunderstanding, but that everything worked out just fine.” He smiled and ran a finger over my nose. “Looks broken. Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No, it’s not that bad.” He knew I would say that.
He leaned forward and kissed me. “Papa Doc really likes you, baby. Told me you took care of him real good again.” His expression got very serious, and his voice held a warning that was unmistakable. “Like I have told you before, Papa Doc’s a dangerous man, Luc. Has always dealt fairly with me, but I have no illusions. He would kill you as soon as look at you if he wanted to. Having him like you is a good thing.”
He looked at the bag on the table, and at the spilled liquid. He smiled and shook his head. “He gave you some of his own shit, I see. Must REALLY like you then.” He flicked my nose with his finger, flicked it hard. I felt it, even through the heroin. “Try not to waste it, baby.”
I looked at him, looked into his turquoise eyes. They were concerned, contrite, convincing. I smiled a smile I didn’t quite feel.
Dale grinned and stood up, pulling me up with him. “Ok, then. You look like you could use a shower and then I think a nice soft bed?” The meaning in his voice was clear. It wasn’t really about what I could use, but what he wanted. But I wanted it, too.
We showered together and I gave him a blow job. I loved to do that in the shower. Loved the taste of the water on his skin. Afterwards, when we went to the bed, Dale was sweet, kind. He fucked me gently, almost made love to me. And I found for the very first time that it wasn’t enough for me. Oh, he made me come. He always made me come. But I wasn’t truly satisfied. And as I lay there staring up at the ceiling, listening to Dale’s steady breathing as he slept, I figured out why. Gentle sex meant love. Gentle, tender, loving sex was what I had with Paul. I had loved Paul. I didn’t love Dale. I needed Dale. I was addicted to Dale—as addicted to Dale as I was to the heroin. But I didn’t love Dale.
.
**
The heroin Papa Doc gave me was good. Real good. Much better than the stuff Dale gave me. Could have used a lot less, made it last a lot longer, and have gotten the same effect, the same relief. But I didn’t. I won’t say it didn’t occur to me. It did. Briefly. But I didn’t want to. Plain and simple. I liked how Papa Doc’s shit made me feel. Or I guess, really, I liked how it made me NOT feel. It put more distance between me and those things that nagged at the edges of my consciousness. It put bigger locks on the doors to those rooms where I kept everything put away. So I used it just as I had used the stuff Dale had given me.
The problem was, of course, that it didn’t last very long that way. And when I ran out, I had to use whatever Dale gave me. And Dale loved that. I see that now. I didn’t see it then. Then all I saw was that Dale would give me whatever I needed whenever I needed it. He never said anything when I started needing more. He just gave me what I needed, whatever I asked for, whenever I asked for it. And in return, I kept running for him. It was a fair trade. I got what I wanted, he got what he wanted, and Papa Doc got what he wanted. Everyone was happy.
But Dale would run low toward the end of the week. He had a lot of clients, he would say with a smile. That was a good thing. Business was good. And I kept asking him for more and more, he would say with a smile. But sometimes he just couldn’t give me what I wanted when I wanted it. “Nothing I can do, baby,” he would say. “I have to take care of my paying clients first. Just good business, that’s all. But you know I’ll make it up to you.”
So most of the time, by the time I went to see Papa Doc I was hurting, hurting so badly that I would have done anything for a hit. And Papa Doc would be there with what I wanted. It got to be a routine, really. Papa Doc would laugh when he saw me, when he saw how shaky and sick I was. He would shake his head and comment on how Da-bo wasn’t taking care of me properly. Then Ramon or Tyrell would bring me a syringe with some of Papa Doc’s own in it and I would shoot up. Like I said, it was good. I would feel better pretty much immediately. So much better that I sometimes didn’t wait for Papa Doc to undo his pants. Sometimes I just went right ahead and did that for him.
“That’s right, boy, you take care of Papa Doc and Papa Doc will take care of you.” He would always say the same thing.
And then he would take a bag out of his pocket and hold it up, examine it, turn it over in his hand. “Man, this is good shit I got this week, boy. Anybody but you would be paying big bucks for this shit.” He would hold his hand out to me, the bag practically under my nose. “You want it, boy?”
I would nod, still on my knees. “Yes, please, Papa Doc.” I knew how to use my voice, would make it soft, submissive. And I would look up at him with eyes that said, “Yes, I want it, more than anything in the world. And you know I will do anything you want if you give it to me.”
And he would bend me over the back of the couch, always over the back of the couch, and he would fuck me. And it wasn’t a big deal. Most of the time I would just separate, detach from myself. Was easy enough to do. Could do it and still give Papa Doc all the positive feedback he liked.
“Oh Papa Doc! That’s so good! Please fuck me harder, Papa Doc.”
“You like my big black cock up your ass, boy?”
“You know I do, Papa Doc. You know I love how you fuck me, Papa Doc.”
But I felt nothing, nothing beyond the physical pounding of Papa Doc’s cock in my ass.
And afterwards, he would give me that bag of the “good shit.” And sometimes I would take a hit of it as soon as I got to my car. Just a small one. Just enough to make those locks on those doors just a little bit bigger. Just enough to get me home.
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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