Sex in C Major

Stefan sank down the wall of the shower, sobbing, when his dick only twitched at the mental image. Of him being held down and fucked by leering strangers. Of Daz-his master, his owner-watching coldly from the corner and telling him to stop complaining.

His dick throbbed.

And Stefan slowly, sobbing, begging himself not to even as he knew he wouldn't be to resist, slowly began to jack it.

Cowering in a cold shower, with blood spiralling down the drain, he masturbated to his own punishment.

Sick-sick-sick-sick. 31

The pain woke him.

It wasn't that dizzy thrill, or the sharp spike of awareness. No, it was an ache. A burn. An all-consuming, inescapable pain that simply hurt, and nothing more.

Stefan rolled off the mattress with stiff arms. The fabric was bloody. And his chest was swollen and hot.

Infection.

Well, what did he expect?

He felt exhausted. Stressed. There was an anger simmering below the surface, too, and the violent urge to cry. To punch the wall. To-fuck.

Be fucked.

By-

"No," he told himself, and reached for his clothes. His hands were shaking. He needed to take the edge off somehow.

Scrounging through pockets and drawers, he rustled up five pounds in change, though only barely. The flat felt small and claustrophobic; the cage on the door was a cold reminder of what he couldn't have anymore. He needed to change. To transition. And he couldn't have manhood if he wanted servitude.

Which meant he needed to forget about Daz and Yannis completely. About all of it. And Stefan knew one sure-fire way to forget.

The corner shop didn't ask too many questions about its booze suppliers, and the cheapest vodka there-four fifty for a litre bottle was little more than paint stripper. Stefan had seen them using it to clean the floors before. But the look on his face must have convinced the cashier not to talk to him, and he walked out already unscrewing the cap.

It was bitter. Vile. It burned his throat and stomach like fire-and he upended the bottle, and chugged it in great gulps. It was a cold fire. It didn't warm; rather, it chilled. His stomach swirled sickly as he meandered down through Harehills, away from the flat, and towards the bottom end of Roundhay Road. Forgetting was more than vodka. Forgetting was a lot of vodka, a lot of whiskey, and a lot of weed.

The whiskey was to be found in a Tesco Express with a security guard more stoned than Dean. He got paid off not to catch the shoplifters who went after booze as long as they made a decent show of running away, or attempting to properly hide the stuff. So Stefan wandered the aisles with a basket first, pretending to shop, then abandoned it for the bottle of Jack Daniels, and walked out with it under his coat, and nothing more than a sideways glance from the corrupt guard.

He unscrewed that on his way to Roundhay Road, too. And by the time he arrived, and found the white dreadlocks swaying at a bus stop, the world was starting to shake a little.

"Fuck me, mate," Dean said. "You look rough."

"Shit night."

"No kidding."

"Can you lay me one over? I just need-"

"No way, man, I'm in debt," Dean said. He looked a little twitchy, and kept glancing up the road. "Hey. Hey, come round. Come to mine. Come on. I don't not here."

He scratched at his arms absently, but Stefan followed anyway, back towards Harehills. He didn't know where Dean lived, just his patch.

"Who d'you owe?"

"Nobody, nobody-well, yeah, somebody, you know, them pikey lads-"

Stefan had nothing to do with them, and said so.

"Yeah, well, you know, it's not just the weed, is it, they got me shifting a bit of white for them, too, and you know how that goes..."

"Dean," Stefan said. "Dean. I don't I mean. No offence. But I don't care. I got my own shit. You know?"

"Yeah, man, you look like you're coming down off brown."

"No. No brown."

"Then what is it?"

What indeed. Stefan grimaced, and shook his head.

"Can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't say. M'fucked up. Need to be less fucked up."

"It's not you, it's the system, system's fucked up, system's-"

"It's not all about the system, Dean, so you gonna lay me some over or not?"

Dean ducked into an alley between two terraced streets, and finally stopped. Stefan leaned against the bricks, and drank from the bottle.

"You nick that?"

"Duh."

"You're wasted."

"Yeah. That's the idea."

"Out to forget?"

"Yeah."

"Well-look, mate, next time if you could nick something valuable, you know, iPhones or whatever, then maybe I could trade, but-" "I'm not getting into that shit."

"Then you have to pay."

"I can't pay."

"Then I can't sell. I'm sorry, man, you're sweet, but-Christ, I'm in it up to my neck. You don't know—"

"There's no favour I could do that won't get me fucking jailed?" Stefan asked incredulously.