Lost Time
"WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING!" A fragile lamp crashed into glitter on the aged, mildew-ridden wall. Nailo fell into a corner, stumbling over the chaos of the room's tidiness.
"Jesus Christ, Derek, it wasn't anything, I swear!" They both knew it was a lie. Derek knew, even with the alcohol coursing through his system. If it weren't for his rage, the dark-brown furred, black haired anthro might have been handsome. Reality revealed his true deception, the beautiful melody boasting a subliminal message of hate.
His voice burned with acid and alcohol. "GOD-DAMNIT, YOU FUCKING SLUT! DON'T GIVE ME THAT BULLSHIT!" With carnal ferocity, he smacked his victim hard on the cheek, eminating more of a cracking sound than a slap, like a whip lash to the back. Derek continued with his random destruction, disheavling shelves, breaking glass and beer bottles, and anything worthy of threatening emotions. Nailo, lost in fear as his sensitive side surfaced, could but yelp per attack on inanimate objects.
"Derek, Christ, would you calm down?! I'm telling you, it was nothing! I made a mistake!" Every word was a purchase of time, delaying the inevitable scar to join the tree of pain already prominent on his back and hind-side.
Derek's voice slowed, and his fury subsided. "How can you tell me that? I know you two were together, I've seen you! What was it? You getting paid for giving it to him? Huh?" An awkward silence followed for brief moments. "TELL ME YOU FUCKING SLUT!"
He was referring to Seiko. After the first night, they'd seen each other another million times. The attraction between them was a nuclear force, ripped apart only in the event of a nuclear reaction with explosion close behind. The whole situation was still awkward in Nailo's mind. Derek was a tool, at first only used to get the material pleasures his own profession couldn't provide. It only took a month before the tool took control of itself, keeping the wielder in line through fear of his own safety. That, and it was always the alcohol talking. Seiko held more, though, not just in terms of well-being, but in the aura around him. Unlike any other mate, he was worth something more, and had a genuine value to his character. He was in it for more than hot sex.
"Derek...I...I just don't...don't..." His voice trembled ferociously.
"You Goddamned piece of shit, you really are a piece of work. The only thing good about you is tight ass. If you didn't have that going for you, you'd probably be another loose tail-hole on the street." The scathing remark hit a soft spot in Nailo's defenses, causing him to think and consider. "I don't even know why I keep you here...it's not like I was in it for your 'personality' or something." Another mark was hit, but Nailo's face instead rose from its shallow depression to equal rage.
"Go to hell, Derek...!" The words slid out softly, but sharp as a razor's blade. Derek's expression shifted, no longer rage, but awe that such a small thing could ever build courage enough to defy its superior.
"Go to hell, huh...? Go to hell...GO TO HELL!" On an incomplete thought, Derek gripped Nailo by the neck and pulled him up from the room's corner. Both standing, he threw the poor flame into the wall, an indent clearly made. "I'LL GIVE YOU ALL THE HELL YOU NEED!" He tore the dazed flame from the wall and smashed him on the vanity mirror beside him, lifting him out to reveal shards of glass splintering his back. Nailo fell once Derek released his grip, dazed and hurt, bleeding his life's fluids.
"Uh...Derek, stop...oh God, please...stop...!" He could barely mumble the words.
"No. I'll stop when I'm done fucking you!"
At this, he pulled the limp flame from the floor and tossed him carelessly onto the disorganized bed in the rooms center. The stained sheets tangled around Nailo's body as he plunged face first into the mattress. Derek quickly situated his victim's lower body, leaving the rump just off the bed. With obvious rapist intent, he ripped off the obtrusive pants guarding Nailo's tainted treasure, and in turn undid his own. Immediately and without warning, he thrusted directly into the tight ring, feeling his own flesh tear back, but revelling more in the blood already seeping from the hole. The thrust took his shaft all the way to the hilt, rearing only a helpless yelp from the now crying Nailo. There was nothing he could do. Time was spent.
Mercilessly thrusting, Derek grinned with sadistic pleasure, chuckling within at the burn and pressure he knew he was causing. His own rod was too much to handle in one sitting, and he knew it. Every pump drew more blood from the violated tail-hole, decorating the bed with new stains. Nailo cried, almost pathetically. His moans were held within, as if he couldn't breath because of the pain's intensity. Mouth wide, eyes moist and clenched shut, he could barely contain himself, wishing to blow open or tear in half and reach the metaphorical end before punishment could continue. Thought could only center on the supreme necessity, survival.
After shear minutes of torture, Nailo's body entered automatic. Instinctually, his legs pulled up and pressed stiffly against Derek's knees. With the rapist falling to the ground, a split second was purchased. Trying to run without falling forward in immense discomfort, he bolted for the bathroom, closed and barred the door shut from the inside with a hamper and shelf, then fell onto it himself, regained his breath, and proceeded to cry out loud. His pants were still low, and blood continued to soak into the world. Scorching with the heat of a hot poker, his hind-side fumed with pins and needles esque heat, and his entire body stung with the heavy flow of adrenaline and blood through his system. With every passing beat, he could feel the pulse coursing through his veins, and every time it seemed to all leave through his anus. He felt essentially dead.
Derek continued to moan out random profanities, slamming his whole body hard against the door, trying to break it down. Nailo had to leave. He needed to escape. He wanted Seiko. A window past the diseased toilet served as the best-case scenario, featuring a fire escape beyond it, and sanctuary in the public form. Calmly regaining composure, he pulled his pants back up to his waist, constantly wiping tears from his face. He rose up slowly, sluggishly, feeling his pants grow wet with his leaking essence. Past the tortured effort of lifting each leg out of the window, he was off into the dead night to find his only savior. Yes...he needed Him.
Seiko's apartment loomed large ahead, heavy and thick with a sort of simple romance. The building held an unnatural homey quality, such that having residence within offered uncommon securities. Observant to avoid other thoughts, Nailo analyzed its every crevice, every shade and every shadow. A general pale-tan concrete material accented with ruby bricks set up the main outline of the multi-story building. Tinted windows ran along every edge, including balconies on the thinner sides of the rectangular edifice. Suburban streetlights made the parking lot asphalt glisten, and in its reflection, the light in Seiko's room was on.
Fighting back the combined onslaught of pain-induced tears and fatigue to collapse, Nailo forced himself to crawl while standing, working for every inch to the lobby doors. Looking down, a red tint made a guilty trail for each step he made; blood had cascaded down the fur of his legs and lightly spilled onto the sidewalk and street. It terrified him that he could no longer feel it burn.
The lobby doors peeled open sure enough, and the perverted expression on the young receptionist's face was one to remember for the ages. Her's was a face a horror and disgust; he wondered if she would speak to his disheveled form at all.
Through mumbling lips, he asked, "Wh-where's...S-Seiko's room...?"
She spoke under a shivering cold, "Sir...are you...do you need help?" Despite her empty-headed tone, her concern was sincere.
"Just...please...ooh...tell me where Seiko is..."
The young receptionist checked the apartment's resident listings, knowing not many Seiko's could possibly live in the building. Satisfied with her answer, she responded.
"Room 333. Take the stair - " she caught herself mid-sentence, " - elevator to the third floor...it's just to the right hallway." She paused in contemplation. "Are you sure you don't want me to call someone...?"
Again, Nailo denied his situation's severity. "I'll be alright...I just need to see him."
The awkward exchange over, he dragged across the hardwood floor of the white-marble decorated lobby to the lift doors, trailing a mop's mess of blood the entire way. Opening with a piercing ping and screeching halt, Nailo passed the elevator portal and pressed the pad for floor 3, stumbling and accidentally queueing level 4 as well. Blood loss played a bigger foe than earlier considered; his perception of reality had already started fading into eternal sleep.
Once opened to the third floor, the hallway described by the receptionist slid into focus, just as decorated as the marble lobby. Slowly exiting the lift, the doors began to close early, grazing against Nailo's pale arm and startling him enough to force him to his knees. The fall brought two waves of pain, primarily in the quick muscle spasms within his legs, and then again with the heavy impact his body made on the floor. Vibrations of malicious intent peeled the skin off his legs with goose bumps and revived the formerly numbed anal burn.
"GOD DAMNED MOTHER FUCKER!" The words spilled out of his mouth in a reactionary scream.
Barely past the first profanity, a door in the hall opened wide and frantic, a door not too far to the right. Soft steps moved patiently toward him, and sure enough, the recognizable pale-blue coat on the creature's feet in front of him spoke a desired name.
He didn't have to look up to know his savior was there at last, but the ability to see into Seiko's magnificent eyes was an extra security, the cliché of icing on the cake. Nailo himself had no idea what stories his face could possibly be telling his lover, but that lover's own facial agony hinted enough. He wanted to apologize, to claim guilt to a crime never done nor defined, but he could do little more than sit on his knees think grace as he stared into his troubled partner. In sickness and in health.
He slid unconscious.