Sex in C Major

"Are you listening?"

"Yes, Sir. Yes. What-what would you do? J-just keep me there, or-?"

"Oh, no, I'd put you to proper use. Come round whenever I needed a place to stick it. Or if my friends did. Might make a few copies of the keys, and hand them out to interested parties."

Stefan gasped, beginning to rub frantically. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

"You'd make a nice doll for them, bound and gagged and with nothing on. All they'd have to do is hold your knees open and fuck you however, wherever they wanted."

Stefan closed his eyes and whimpered again. Someone just walking in the door and shoving him over, someone he'd never seen before, someone just hammering into him and coming, then pulling out and walking back out, just leaving him there on the floor-

"Might keep it up for a week, two, maybe even a month if you fought me and tried to keep your legs closed. But I bet you'd like it. I bet I'd come round and you'd spread your legs the minute you heard a key in the lock."

"Yes, Sir," Stefan whispered. He was shaking. His fingers were damp. His bare legs were cold. He'd always be cold, naked and bound in steel in the flat. Except for Daz's cock, burning hot and filling him up. Apart from the semen staining his skin. Apart from stranger's hands holding him open.

"Maybe I'd keep you like that all the time. Could make a lot of money off you."

Stefan gasped. His thighs clenched. Fire exploded up his spine. He shuddered against the bricks. There wasn't enough air, and his chest heaved for greedy gulps of it.

"Sir-Sir, Sir..."

The alley shivered back into view, Daz's voice deep and dark in his ear.

"Did you just get off to the thought of strangers using you like a blow-up doll?"

Stefan swallowed, and slowly pulled his fingers out of his boxers.

"Y-yes, Sir."

"Then maybe they'd be your reward when you learned your place."

"Yes, Sir."

"Don't go near my boyfriend again. And don't come to the house unless I tell you. You got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

The phone cut out, and Stefan stared blindly at the opposite wall. Fuck. He was-fuck. He was standing in an alley, between stinking bins of three-day-old pizza and Chinese food, with his jeans around his ankles and damp underwear. Because...because a guy who'd fucked him just one time had threatened to keep him prisoner in his flat and rent him out to strangers.

The self-loathing rose up like a wave.

"Sick," Stefan whispered. "Sick, sick, sick, sick!"

He scrambled for his jeans. They were stained from the ground, sticky with something dubious, and he wanted to cry at the sight he must have made. Sick in the head, sick in the head, so fucked up.

Thirty quid was lying around his flat.

Fuck-anything. Fuck the electric bill, and the job interview he'd landed next week in Bradford. Fuck it all.

He'd spend that thirty on weed, and smoke it until he stopped shaking.

Until he stopped thinking.

Maybe, even, until he stopped being himself at all. 7

Nearly a week passed, in a haze of cheap weed and cheaper wine. Stefan didn't want to think about what it meant, that he woke up from several wet dreams of strangers fucking him while Daz stood and watched. He didn't want to think about what it meant that he wanked nearly twice a day to fantasies of Daz taking him to bars and ordering him to let people screw him in the toilets.

He didn't want to think at all.

The thing was, Stefan knew he was fucked up. He'd known that for years. But before he'd started to transition, he could keep the crazy quiet. He hadn't wanted sex before, because he'd been too disgusted with his own body to use it. He'd not dated, because the idea of being someone's girlfriend had made him want to vomit. His fantasies had been so completely...well, made-up, that they hadn't needed examining. Lots of people like videos of suspiciously well-hung actors pretending to rape famous porn stars-those kind of hit counts couldn't be faked.

But nobody actually wanted to be the porn star in those videos.

Nobody actually wanted that. Nobody let strangers fuck them in spare rooms and felt good about it afterwards. Nobody dropped their trousers to jerk it to someone promising to have people round to rape them. Except Stefan.

Because he was seriously fucked up, and no amount of weed or wine could erase that, but it could at least loosen him up enough to not ask himself too many questions, enjoy the climax, and pretend it hadn't been achieved while digging his fingers into the bruises Daz had left behind.