Sex in C Major

They had to hurt. At least if they hurt, they were legitimately wrong. At least if they hurt, he was normal to hate them. But women didn't hate their breasts. And if he liked what Daz did to him, he was no man. So he must be a woman. But he couldn't be if he hated them-

The loop was torture.

The loop was insanity.

And yet as he scratched and scored with the knife at the swollen skin, at the fatty lumps that had appeared on his chest when he was only ten years old and mocked him ever since sick, sick, sick, wrong, wrong, wrong-it wasn't working. No matter how much he bled, no matter how he carved at the nipple to try and deaden the sensation, no matter how much he clawed with his own fingers until the blood was smeared on him from hip to neck-it didn't work.

Because the pain was nothing.

It was nothing, compared to the disgust. The self-loathing. The anger. Every bad emotion he'd ever felt, every bad day he'd ever had, was reflected in his breasts.

His breasts. God, even the sentence didn't make sense.

But that was the way of it, wasn't it? He was insane. He had to be. Because when Daz sucked on the nipples, bit them, pinched them-Stefan loved it. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed everything about it, and yet he could barely look at them without wanting to vomit. Without-

Stabbing at them. With a knife. In his own bathroom.

He dropped it.

It clattered to the floor in a spray of red. His feet were soaking. His fingers were smeared. It was like a scene from a poor horror film, and when he put his hand over his mouth and tried not to vomit, how far gone was he that his first thought was, Sir won't like this.

Daz wasn't Sir anymore.

He wasn't.

He couldn't be. Couldn't. Because Stefan couldn't live with these things, couldn't live with being a woman, couldn't. And maybe it made him mad but...but he couldn't do it. He had to be a man. And a man wouldn't like what Daz did.

Wouldn't.

Couldn't.

How could he possibly say he felt masculine when he opened his mouth and legs for Daz on command? When he enjoyed being passed around men like a sex toy. When he begged for cock in his cunt and teeth on his tits.

No. Man. Would.

He had to get rid of this sickness. Get rid of these fantasies. Go back to-to porn and his own hand, and that was all. They were only fantasies. Could only be fantasies. They didn't have to be real.

And then he could be real.

Not this-this fake. Standing here saying he was a man when he had breasts. Calling it a dick and a cock when it was a-

"Clit," he whispered. The word was filthy in his word. "Clit. Clit, clit, clit." It rhymed, almost, with sick, sick, sick.

He wasn't real. Not yet.

And if he wanted to be, none of the rest of it could be.

So he had to stay away. Daz would come. He'd come to the flat, he knew where Stefan lived. He'd got those keys from somewhere. So Stefan had to stay out and about for a while. He knew Daz's routine well enough to know when he'd come over-middle of the day, not in the morning when he spent time with Yannis, and not in the evening when Yannis came home from class. So if Stefan stayed away, dawn til dusk, Daz would lose interest. Find another sl-person. Person.

Woman.

And Stefan could be...Stefan.

Finally.

But when he stepped under the shower again, and scrubbed at his torn and broken tits with his eyes closed, there was an image on the back of the lids. Daz's face. Daz's anger.

Daz would be furious, if he found Stefan like this.

Daz would punish him. Badly. This would be a beating offence for sure, even though Daz said he rarely did those. He'd beat Stefan to within an inch of his life. And he'd take him back to the house. Hold him captive. Stefan would never be allowed to leave again, if this was what he did when he left. Daz would turn that spare bedroom into a prison cell.

No, worse. He'd turn the cage in the wardrobe into the cell. Stefan would have to live in it permanently, only brought out to be fucked. And not just by Daz. He'd no longer have a choice that spare bedroom would be set up like a brothel, and Stefan would be forced to lie with anyone who came. Anyone at all.

Or worse, they'd keep the flat for that purpose. This would be his brothel. He'd be fucked in this shower by smackheads and strangers. The mattress would be soiled and filthy but they'd never get a new one. If Stefan wanted clean beds, clean clients, he wouldn't have done this to himself and ruined his value.