Sex in C Major

God, he couldn't do this.

Yannis came home just as the water ran cold, and Stefan managed to dress without either of them coming upstairs and disturbing him. When he heard their voices move into the living room, he crept down the stairs as quietly as possible and pushed his feet into his shoes carefully. If Daz came out now...

He didn't. The sofa creaked as they sat down. They were talking in low voices.

Stefan pressed down carefully on the door handle. It clicked open. Eased back. Soundless. Stealthy.

He inched out, and rested the door closed, too afraid to slam it.

Then he turned on his heel and, feeling as though he was dragging a ball and chain and ripping his ankles to shreds with every step, ran.

Stefan ran, and didn't look back.

****

By the time Stefan got home, he was shattered.

Exhausted and feeling sick, he dragged himself up the stairs. The junkie on the second floor yelled and offered a gram for a fuck. The neighbour with the swastika had painted another, bigger and bolder over Yannis' words. And Stefan's hands shook on the cage as he bolted it in place behind the door, and rested his forehead against the bars.

"Sick," he whispered. "Sick, sick, sick, sick-sick-sick-sick."

Because he wanted to go back.

"Can't. Don't."

Here he was, leaning against the bars on his own front door, and telling himself not to go back to a house to be fucked by random men, to be locked naked in chains and feel endless cocks sliding in and out of him, to have cum and blood and lube rubbed into his skin like fucking moisturiser-

Back to a house where he liked every single thing that had happened inside of it.

"Fuckingsick!" he howled, and punched the bars. Pain exploded up his arm, but it was the wrong kind of pain, and he burst into tears, sobbing like a child. He staggered backward into the wall, sliding down by the bathroom door with his hands over his face. His jeans rode up; his dick ground against the denim. He'd forgotten his underwear. God, he'd just run from his master's house with no underwear, and-

"Not fucking master, men don't have masters, they don't want masters!" Stefan shouted at himself, and bashed his head back into the plaster until it ached. "Nobody wants this, nobody wants any of this, you sick pathetic cunt!"

Someone banged on the wall next door. Stefan wrenched himself up from his spot on the floor, and tore at his clothes. Tore them off. Threw them to the floor. Saw wobbly thighs, a cockless crotch, breasts.

"You can't be, you can't-"

Saw a woman.

And he wasn't. The wave of revulsion was intense and sharp. Who was he kidding? Men didn't look like this. Men didn't like having someone bite their breasts, and fuck their cunts. Men didn't open their legs on command like whores, or admire the glint of cuffs on their skin.

The cuff.

God, the fucking cuff.

It gleamed brightly on that womanly thigh. Stefan wrenched open the kitchen drawer, and found a knife. It scraped at the lock, gouging bloody holes in his skin and merely scratching at the metal. He cried in frustration, stabbing at it and jabbing his own flesh until the blood was running down his leg-but it wouldn't come off. Wouldn't budge. Wouldn't-

"Please," he begged it, sobbing incoherently. "Please, please, just-just go, leave me alone, please, I can't do this, I can't be this-"

It wouldn't come off. No matter how hard he dug and worked, it wouldn't come off. It had to have some kind of a key, something, but he just couldn't-couldn't-

There was blood pooling around his foot. Running down his leg. Sickly bright, and like-

He stormed into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Rinsed until it began to stick, crusty and brown around the silver. He wasn't due. It wasn't that. He couldn't handle that right now.

But the bathroom was a mistake.

Because of the mirror. He looked up, after washing off his leg, and straight at his reflection.

Straight at a woman. A short-haired dyke. A girl. With fingerprints on her breasts, and soft shoulders and a slim neck.

Woman. Girl. Female.

He lashed out.

The plastic cracked on the end of the knife, but it wasn't enough. He could still see her, burned into his eyes, and he stabbed at the cheap mirror again and again and again until the shards were pulled free on the blade and flung off into the shower cubicle, the sink, onto the cracked tiles that made up the floor.

And then he turned the knife on those offending breasts.