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The days of rest and relaxation my father allowed me were anything but restful and relaxing. I stewed in my room and drowned in bitter thoughts. Anxiety savaged me. He didn’t speak to me, but he did make his displeasure known when we bumped into each other throughout the house. That ended when my short break from job hunting did.

I stood in the kitchen, a small pile of resumes on the counter beside me. I’d groomed myself as best as I could manage and I wore a button-up with a collar. He stalked into the kitchen, looking for some water. He looked at me while he drank it, then he stepped closer and pushed a finger past the collar of my shirt.

I jolted at his touch, but he gasped as he saw the network of bruises on the side of my neck I’d been trying to hide. I knew a moment of shame so intense it made me want to run to my room, but it burst into a surge of rage.

I spun on him, hand raised to slap him with the full weight of my momentum behind it. My palm connected with this arm with a hefty smack. He winced and jumped back, a guarded expression on his face. He grit his teeth and growled out a filthy breath, then he heaved another in and shook himself down. Something strained his expression as he squinted at me, through pain or through disappointment I couldn’t tell.

“I told you not to touch me.” I spoke the words through a rough exhalation. I was panting over fiery breaths.

He snorted an acknowledgement. “Clear out.” His voice was thin as he nodded at my stack of resumes. I snatched them and stormed towards the front door but he spoke again. “Don’t come back tonight. I can’t deal with you right now.”

That was new. He’d never done that before, I glared. There were a dozen things I wanted to shout at him, instead I obeyed. I wanted him to know I didn’t want to be here either. I turned up my nose, snatched my resumes and stormed out of his house. Anger coursed like fire in my veins, my heart was a pounding inferno.

If he was going to kick me out, I wanted him to see exactly what he’d done to me. Pettiness was as good of a vent for my anger as anything. I snorted and corrected my collar, a pang of shame burned my thoughts. He’d seen the bruises. Fuck him.

I strode off towards town and tried to clear my thoughts as I dropped off my resume at a few businesses I hadn’t tried in months. I was in a reactive mood, it was freeing to call a manager a cunt to his face when he palmed me off.

I was worthless and I knew it, we all knew it. I had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. No friends to call on, I’d pissed them all off. I didn’t even want to pretend I could be stable, I just wanted someone to want me and there was one person I knew who would.

I dropped a quarter in a payphone. My brain prickled as I dredged the number out of my memory. It felt almost forbidden to remember it, but I knew I could never forget it. I’d never been good with numbers, but his carried a taint that thrilled me. He told me it and I’d never forgotten it. I found myself recalling it during idle moments and my body would react.

His name was Borris. He was a rhino. He was bigger than me, late in his 50s and long since ex-communicated from the local gay scene for being a serial pest. He was one of the first guys I’d ever hooked up with. The rumblings and rumours I’d heard about him gave him an aura of mystery. My first night with him, he blindfolded me and cracked a whip across my shoulders without warning. It left a tiny scar, I knew I deserved it. He’d done worse to me since then.

I’d been cautioned about him so many times, but like a moth to a flame I couldn’t stop myself. Once I produced the thought of seeing him again, it’d happen soon. Borris was the reason I lost one of my last friends, my buddy just hated the fact I even gave that guy the time of day. But I felt like Borris saw me truer than anyone else, that was how I wanted to be treated when I was in this mood.

I punched in his number. It hardly rung before he picked up.

“It’s Davie.” My voice quivered excitedly, perversion left a sinking feeling in my chest that culminated in my cock hardening. “I’m coming over.”

“Hello- oh.” We spoke at the same time. He chuckled in his deep baritone. “I’m free.”

“I’ll be there in ten.” Butterflies fluttered in my belly.

The walk to Borris’s apartment felt like a descent into hell. He lived in an almost rundown building on the outskirts of town. The area had been cleared of trees for a development that never started. It was hot here, hotter than it was elsewhere and there was no protection from the sun.

As I climbed the stairs of his building, I wasn’t sure if I was nervous or horny. These visits had a cost, but I couldn’t explain what it was. My heart pounded awkwardly in my chest as I knocked at his door. His heavy footfalls only wakened my anxiety. The squeal of his door opening made me tense.

“Davie, Davie, Davie.” He leant against his doorframe and sighed contentedly. “Pleasant surprise.” He stood tall over me, the heft of his body was intimidating. His grey flesh was coarse and wrinkly, his horn weathered with age. A shiver passed through me, him being older than my dad did something to my brain that only made me want him more.

I wore a feisty look as I stared up at him. “Just lemme in.”

He laughed and made a gap for me under his arm. As I stepped through into his messy apartment, he slapped a hand down on my ass hard and left it there to grope me. I grunted, unsurprised. I was used to this from him.

His apartment stank of masculine rhino. He never cracked a window, never tidied up and only showered when he remembered to. His lounge room was a sty, at least two days of greasy takeaway containers filled his coffee table. There was a bookcase that doubled as a bar, with bottles of spirits acting as bookends for a sparse collection of cookbooks, autobiographies of actors and conservative politicians. By far the busiest shelf was his display of erotic novels which ranged from fairly tame romances to a number of outright taboo works of fiction. The latter of which he’d tried to get me to read.

There was a time where he treated me like a protege or something. He took so much pleasure in dirtying my mind, from the moment I admitted to him he’d given me a masochism kink he wanted to ‘make me worse’ as he put it.

I didn’t tell him where my limits were because I wasn’t even certain myself, but there were things he’d tried to show me that left me emotionally reeling for weeks. He shut the door behind me. Why did I keep coming back here? I didn’t have another choice for somewhere to stay, but what sick part of myself craved him?

I hated that we had a history. I hated that tonight was going to become another page of it. His hands landed on my shoulders. He rubbed at my tense muscles, too firm. He was always too firm. He breathed against the side of my face as he nibbled my ear. “Been hard as fuck since you called.” He guided me to his ratty couch and took a seat beside me.

He appraised me for a moment, a devious grin settled onto his face. “Fighting with your dad again?”

I nodded. I didn’t like that he knew. It made me feel so vulnerable, I didn’t dare to tell him I had nowhere else to go but I was sure he knew.

“Tell me about it.”

I grit my teeth. He was always prying, I never wanted to let him in but who else would actually listen to me? “Just stupid job shit,” I muttered. “Can’t find work. Can’t do anything but piss him off.” I folded my arms and glowered at his messy coffee table.

“My offer still stands.” He put an arm around my shoulders. I didn’t lean into him.

“No.” I wrinkled my nose. “Not yet.” He’d offered to pay me by the night to stay with him, but he would get to decide which nights and I’d have to comply. He’d have complete control over what we did as well. And I knew, I knew deep down that as soon as he started paying me to be here he would succeed at making me worse. He’d pay me to read his filth. He’d pay me to internalise it. He’d pay me to make me just like him.

But who else was offering to pay me? I wanted to believe my self-respect could last long enough for me to find a job, but the process of hunting for one was also destroying my self-respect. I think I was close to giving in.

He pursed his lips, displeased by my answer. He blinked, the process much like him tucking away those feelings for later. He could be patient when he wanted to be. For his desire to ruin me, it wasn’t something he could force on me. He’d enjoy it most if I gave myself willingly while I chased what he offered, and I needed that to never happen.

“Ah well.” His voice was neutral but he tucked his arms by his sides. “What’ll we do tonight?” He placed a hand on my knee.

“I don’t give a shit what we do, I just gotta stay here.”

“Yeah?” A tight smile picked at the corners of his lips. “I like it when you need my help.” He shifted his hips. “C’mere son.” He patted his lap. I didn’t like when he called me that, it reminded me too much of my father. Regardless, I crawled over to his lap. My heart beat a little faster as I settled against his chest. His thick arms reached around my body as he held me against him.

One hand snuck up under my shirt. I stifled a nervous chuckle as he pressed fingers through the bristly hair of my belly. “You can sleep with me in my bed.” He nosed at the side of my neck, his voice darkened with lust. His horn was cool to the touch as it rubbed against me. “Look at those bruises.” His voice was a fervid whisper. “You’ve been busy without me.” He bit my neck eagerly, his flat teeth hurt as they crushed the bruises last week’s hook up left on me. “You can help me help you.” I gasped and folded to his touch.

Like he felt me submitting, his posture shifted in an instant. His free hand reached up to the bookshelf beside us, I heard his nails clink against glass as he hooked a bottle of spirits. “Here son, drink this.” He wrenched the lid off and pressed the lip of the bottle to my mouth. He loved making me drunk and useless. I’d had too many bad hangovers in my young life, and all of them started at his place.

A surge of burning filled my senses, I couldn’t even taste what kind of spirit it was but I gulped back a hefty mouthful and then another. I panted as he dove on me and kissed me, I didn’t fight him. I gave him my body and he used it. He grabbed me by the cheeks and twisted me down into his lap. He was hard already. With a meaty finger he opened my mouth and ground the front of his jeans into my tongue. I relinquished control of my body, just the way he liked it. He growled as he humped at me, the coarse sensation of his jeans was far from pleasant.

He popped his fly, my belly clenched in anticipation. He had the biggest cock in the world, I was utterly convinced. He acted like it made him king of the universe, and that was why I was here. Even when he tried to fuck me gently, when he wanted me to feel pleasure, he still hurt to take.

He wrenched my head back by my bristly mohawk and shoved the bottle of spirits in, it already streamed fiery liquid. It splashed across my cheek before I gulped down two messy mouthfuls. His cock flexed through his boxers, warm against my face. The stink of his unwashed body mingled with the alcohol in the air.

I was breathless as I snorted at his cock.

“That’s it boy.” He spoke like I was nothing. Like he was only muttering to himself while he jerked off. Foreplay was not his specialty, nor was it his care. The only thing that mattered to him truly was his pleasure. He yanked his boxers down. He was eleven inches hard and as thick as a fist. His cock swatted against my face with a meaty pat. I hardly had time to anticipate the sight of it before he was cramming it down my throat.

I gagged and gulped, my jaws forced wider in an instant than they really should go. He had a rule. He’d make it fit. I was already breathless. My throat burned from the alcohol, and his fat cock pressed outwards against the walls of my mouth. I hacked a wild breath and tried to nuzzle into it. He tasted salty, tasted raw, tasted like he hadn’t showered in a few days. The stink of him grew in my nostrils as he buried himself into me. I made a gulping sound as my nose rubbed in the coarse hair of his pubes.

In a heavy hand he grabbed me by my mohawk and thrust his hips against my snout. At first I held strong but one breath could only last so long. I screwed up my face and tried to welcome the pain. He jabbed himself into me so firmly I spluttered and retched.

I jerked back so hard I nearly jumped out of his lap. I coughed and gasped for air. He cracked the back of his hand across my cheek. My cock throbbed. Fuck. As I turned back to look at him, he was already raising the bottle of spirits to me. I took a heady, fearless draught of it. I had no idea how many shots I would’ve taken.

I felt ill. My body buzzed, my fingertips were numb. I didn’t wait for him to shove me back down on his cock. He fucked my face, occasionally pausing to liquor me up further. If any question of bad judgement crossed his mind, it was only when he paused to consider the bottle as though he wanted to take a swig. He didn’t.

He made me pay double duty for his own delay, I spluttered and swallowed all he gave me. I already felt sick.

“Tell me you want more.” He sloshed the bottle in my face. I swayed on my knees and shrugged. He knelt in front of me, his horn pressed against my forehead. His dark eyes bore down on me. “Now.”

I snorted. “More.” The room spun. “It’s not like I’ll live to 50.” I’d just end up being some fuck up like him.

If I saw danger in the way his grin widened, I was too far gone to acknowledge it. He forced more alcohol into me, then replaced the bottle with his cock. He must’ve liked the feeling of the alcohol burn because he throbbed and moaned.

My recollections blurred after that.

I remembered him gagging me on his cock, his entire body bent over me to crush me in a hold with his meaty arms. I was pinned down to the hilt, my body rejected the spear of his flesh that stretched me in places I wasn’t meant to stretch. And how he howled, louder than my body tried to reject him. Each gag, each splutter, each moment I weakened in my thrashing to escape him. I felt him jerk within me, the movement raw and painful. There was a spray of warmth, then another. I blanked, my body restarted as something splattered against my face. He prodded a pudgy finger past my lips and growled as he oozed over my tongue.

I remembered lying on his bed. He was bunched up against the pillows, I was buried between his thighs and growling as I lapped at his sweaty asshole. My tongue was sore and tired, I’d been at it for a while. His heavy nuts bounced against my face. I could still taste his cum and my throat ached something fierce. It didn’t trouble me. I kept eating him out.

Dimly, I heard him playing with a lighter. Something fizzled with a subtle hiss. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled like his soul left his body. His pipe clattered against his bedside table. It felt important I kept licking his sweaty ass and not make eye contact, not acknowledge what he just did. It felt safer just to do what he wanted. I was good at that, and so long as he was lost in a haze he wouldn’t consider me. Wouldn’t consider putting the pipe to my lips. I didn’t want that, but if he wanted it for me I would let him.

“C’mere son.” He sounded distant as he nudged me out from between his thighs. I bit my lip and crawled up to his side, my eyes never left his pipe. But that wasn’t what he reached for. My stomach sank as he leant over the side of his bed and retrieved a worn shoebox. I felt nauseous as he put it on his belly. He grinned at me. “Go on.”

“No.” My voice was quiet. That shoebox held nightmares. Photos, magazines, slim booklets and pamphlets of filth that felt bad for my soul. He’d opened the box a few times around me, shown me things I could now only dream of forgetting. So much of it bore satanic iconography it almost made me believe in the devil.

He looked at me, I swear I could see his pupils dilating in real time. He sighed and slapped me across the face. It stung more than anything else, my drunkenness numbed the pain. He slipped the shoebox back under his bed, stood up without a word and came back with a bottle of tequila. He jerked my head back by my mohawk and jammed the bottle in my mouth.

He was in me then, be it minutes or hours later I couldn’t tell. But he fucked me raw. I passed out. I woke up, the eerie glow of pre-dawn filtered through his blinds. He was fucking me again, it hurt as much as it pleased me. His fingers were in my mouth. I suckled at him weakly, he made a low, filthy sound like he pitied me.

His hand cracked against my face. I jolted awake with my snout pressed to his asshole. I lapped at his hole and sucked his cock until he was whimpering. I slept in the nook of his arm, my face buried in his pit. The scent of his unwashed body clawed at my own arousal. I remembered rolling on top of him. I remembered pressing my cock into his body, and then another slap rocked my head. But he didn’t want me to stop, he wanted to thrash me while I fucked him.

And then I was eating my own cum out of his ass. My face hurt. There were a dozen aches across my upper torso. I crashed. Poor sleep and a hangover caught up to me. I woke up to his fingers in my ass and his cock in my mouth. My hands were bound by black rope and there was a ribbon of pain down my back, the tip of it polluted with an almost sticky wetness. It stung, likely a vicious blow from a whip, I knew not to roll any blood onto his sheets unless I wanted a dozen more.

I was dimly aware that it was afternoon, I’d never intended on staying another night, it didn’t matter. I was in no position to leave and I was his as long as I was here. He found another bottle of liquor, there were no more memories after that.

He pinched my nose to wake me up gasping. It was morning. Nausea rolled in my belly, daylight seared my eyes.

“Time to go, piggy.” He was spry as he hopped out of bed. I think I only just noticed he hadn’t been drinking too. I wasn’t sure how many more times he’d used his pipe. “Got work.” He cocked his head towards the door. I felt utterly rotten. Hunger growled in my belly. I’d never felt so dehydrated in my entire life.

I blinked dumbly at him, I couldn’t quite work out exactly what he needed me to do. A grin flashed on his face again. “You look so stupid.” His hand drifted to his crotch and he rubbed himself. “We have time for another.”

I was in no state to refuse him, but I wouldn’t even if I was. It didn’t even feel good. I was so done. He left another load in my ass and kicked me out. I could feel his fluids slowly dripping out of me, he’d stretched me til I was gaping. He always did. Wearing a shirt again stung. I found shallow gashes down my back but I couldn’t remember when he’d made them, or what with. I made my way home before the morning sun got too hot, the walk was agonising.

Sweat dripped down my back and mixed with dried blood. I would’ve looked a sight.

Why’d I let that happen? Why’d I go seeking him out? Fuck me. I would’ve felt better sleeping in the fucking forest. A single thought skewered my brain to the walls of my skull. I just didn’t want to be alone.

My mind was quiet as I finished the walk home. My thoughts were numb. I was empty.

Dad was meant to be at work, instead he rushed for the door as soon as I stepped inside. He took one look at me and sighed out a great breath of relief. I glared a warning at him.

“You scared me, you know?” He folded his arms. “I figured you’d only be gone one night.”

I shrugged. His nose twisted. He wasn’t a stupid man, I knew that he smelled sex and alcohol on me. Fuck knows what he’d think of me now, I didn’t want him to know anything I’d done or had done to me. I stalked off towards the shower, the needs of my body forgotten under the immense shame that started to pile on top of my shoulders. I heard him speed off late to work.

I scrubbed myself raw. It was hard to find compassion for myself when nobody gave me any. The water made a hundred cuts down my back cry out. My ass hurt, my cock felt bruised. It was always the regret that got me. Every time I saw Borris I’d wind up hating myself just that little bit more for seeing him again.

But I knew it’d happen more anyways. How much more could I hate myself before I became what he wanted me to be? I didn’t know.

I hydrated, I ate, I crashed. When I rose from the grave it was early evening, the scent of a creamy pasta sauce warmed the house. Dad hated cooking, but he did it when he needed to.

My stomach growled but I didn’t want to leave my room. He’d made my favourite food, but I wasn’t going to forgive him for the judgement he’d cast on me or for acting guilty that he’d shooed me out of my home. I waited for the tv to switch on before I tried to tiptoe out of my room. I just wanted to eat, I didn’t want some peptalk. I didn’t want him to acknowledge me, but he always would. Our living room was visible through the kitchen, I winced when his head turned towards me. I saw his chest fall in a heavy sigh, but he turned back to his show.

All it took was that one glance for me to feel unfit to wear my own flesh. He’d held hopes for me once. He’d latched onto my childish aspirations and tried to help me rise to them, but in this shithole backwash of a town there were no opportunities for me to follow. I had wanted to be a chemist, but it really was just a childish dream. I didn’t have the smarts, nor the inclination to actually learn. I liked the look of whacky experiments, there was no substance behind it.

The fact that he’d tried to facilitate that for me had always made me feel like a failure, a sensation which only grew more embedded in our relationship after I left highschool. We both knew I had no prospects.

I lingered in the kitchen after I ate. I felt aimless and still a bit hungover, but I knew Dad wanted to speak to me. He got up as the credits rolled on his show and stood in the doorway to the living room, the TV still sounded out behind him.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said the other day.” He tightened his lips. “I was pissed off you hit me, but chasing you out of the house didn’t fix that.” He wrinkled his face.

I sighed. “Sorry for hitting you,” I muttered.

He nodded. “It’s not fine, but it happened.” He folded his arms. “I want to talk about the sort of stuff you do when you sneak off after dark.”

I visibly flinched.

“Not the specifics, whatever, do your thing. I just… Davie. You gotta look after yourself, alright?”

I snorted. “I am.” The words were punched with certainty.

He drew in a careful breath. “You came home this morning looking like you’d been in a bar fight.”

“Maybe I was.” I glared at him, but he just shook his head.

“Son, I’d be so much less worried if that was you.” He shuffled uncomfortably. “That was me, at your age. I can tell the difference. I wasn’t, well… a deviant.” He said the word so plainly I don’t think he realised how shamefully it resonated within me.

My own attachment to the things that made me myself crumbled and shattered. In the span of a single breath I felt myself degrade. I snarled at him and violent musings sprung up throughout my mind.

“I’m not judging!” His hands rose defensively. “I just don’t know what else to say.” He rubbed at his own neck while he looked at mine. I could feel my own bruises like they were beetles in my flesh. “Surely you can see why I’m worried. I saw the blood on your shirt.”

“Let me live my fucking life.” I growled the words.

He blinked. “I’m trying. I want you to.” He rubbed at his forehead.

“No. You want to judge me for not being just like you.”

He grimaced. “That isn’t it.”

“Then what?” I raised my voice.

He cursed under his breath. He looked at me, then buried his gaze. He made an exasperated sound. “What am I meant to do?” He sounded desperate. “I can’t work it out. Help me, please. I can’t speak to you. I can’t even touch you, I don’t want there to be so much between us. I know you’re a young man and you deserve your independence but you’re not ready to leave the nest. I want to look after you. Just, I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with you, but I feel sick over what you do to yourself if I let you go.”

He growled before he continued. “Please. Can we work this out? I’ll help you sort out a plan if you want to move out. You need work, and I know you don’t want to think about that all of the time but someone has to. So please, help me help you.”

I stared at him as he wallowed. I felt utterly rotten, this man deserved a better son than I could ever be. Guilt washed through me.

“Is there anything I can do you’ll respond better to?” he asked. He was pleading. I winced over the words as I said them.

“Beat me into line.”

“What?”

“Like when you slapped me. It worked. So do it.”

“Davie I’m not going to hit you.” He scowled at me, his face a mask of disgust. “I think you should go back to the doct–”

I grunted and stormed off. I didn’t want to let him finish.

He made a soft sound, somewhere between a snort and a whimper. My ears fell, I think I broke his heart.