by Lisa Henry
Aaron was howling and screaming now, not in enjoyment, but in pain; Lowell was pinching the head of his cock and deflating his erection.
Rory’s stomach clenched. He gripped Tate by the shoulders and tried to push him away. He needed to help Aaron.
“No,” Tate whispered. “No, he likes it. Watch. He likes it rough. Mr. Lowell knows what he needs.” He kissed Rory behind the ear. “I like it rough too. You could use me that way.”
Rory stared over his shoulder at Aaron. Tears streaked down his face now. His nose was bleeding again as he said, over and over, “Yes, please, more.” He licked his lips, tongue swiping through the blood. Lowell didn’t seem to notice or care.
Lowell’s words: “You need to fit in. You need to be more like us.”
And Aaron’s: “I’ve gotten everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Who was Rory to judge that? Rory was an outsider. Tate was one too, but Tate was at least willing to try. Wasn’t he? Doing all this, being exactly the thing Beulah wanted him to be. Why couldn’t Rory keep up? He wanted to. He wanted this to be home. He wanted this to feel right. Beulah was supposed to be perfect. Rory wanted to be perfect too.
Tate’s breath was ragged in his ear. “Come in me, Master. Come in me.”
His desperate plea tripped something in Rory. He came, shuddering and gasping, as Tate clenched tightly around him.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Tate kissed him over and over again.
Over his shoulder, Aaron fell forward out of Lowell’s lap with a groan, landing face-first and ass-up on the floor.
Lowell, leaning back, dabbed at the sweat on his forehead, reaching out with one toe to nudge Aaron’s upraised ass. “Should we let them come, Rory? Have they done well enough?”
Rory nodded wordlessly, and Tate kissed him again, slipping gracefully to the floor with Aaron.
“W-wait!”
“Come now, Rory,” Lowell said. “Let the boys have their fun. This is no place for jealousy.”
Jealousy. Rory’s face burned. He wanted to protest—too late—that it wasn’t about jealousy at all. It was about preserving Tate’s dignity, and Aaron’s. It was about the realization that this had already gone too far. But it would have been a lie. It was all jealousy. He didn’t want another man to touch Tate.
Lowell gave a knowing smile.
Aaron didn’t move, so Tate went to him, rolled him onto his back, kissed him, and gently fondled his soft, bruised cock until it began to harden. Climbed atop him, giving Rory a view of Tate gently dipping his own cock against Aaron’s lips, over and over again until Aaron opened up and received him. The pair of them sucked each other, Tate fucking Aaron’s face and bobbing his head.
Lowell watched with sated pleasure. Took a sip of ice water. “Play with each other’s holes,” he directed, waving them on lazily with one hand.
Tate’s fingers dove into Aaron’s ass, three of them at once, scooping out gobs of Lowell’s cum. Aaron moaned. Tate was making noise, as well. High pitched whimpers. His poor ass must be raw, and to have Aaron poking and prodding at him in the same way . . .
“I like this,” Lowell said. “The boy gets his reward, but I get to rest. Best of both worlds, don’t you agree?”
No. “Oh . . . yes,” Rory replied. He couldn’t stop looking at Tate’s puffy hole, Aaron’s curling and thrusting fingers. The dribbles of cum running down Aaron’s hand and the back of Tate’s balls.
“We could have them lick each other’s asses up too. They won’t even need dinner then, because their bellies will be full of cum. Ours. Each other’s. Hell, have them kiss with their mouths full and then they can eat some of their own too.”
A part of him wanted to see that. A part of him wanted to revel in his own power, to see how far he could push them. To see if they’d really do it, and if they did, if they’d love it and thank him for the chance.
Another part of him just wanted to go back to his own house, put Tate in a hot bath, and never go outside again. Keep him safe from this horrible, twisted place.
“Isn’t it so much better?”
For the first time, Rory wasn’t so sure.
In the end, Lowell had them come in each other’s mouths and eat each other’s asses before they exchanged a long—gratuitously long—sloppy kiss that covered both their chins in cum. Rory had to finish his glass of wine just to get through it. His stomach churned as he watched. Not because of the act itself but because of the exhibitionism. The exploitation. And Aaron’s face, still shining with tears and snot and blood.
But when they pulled away from one another, when Lowell beamed and clapped his hands, they both smiled and flushed and laughed with pride, and Rory felt, again, that he was the only one still stuck on the outside. The only one who didn’t understand how good this was, how right, how happy everyone was.
They’re always happy, Alexandra had said.
She’d spat the words like an accusation instead of an endorsement.
Like a curse, instead of a blessing.
ory woke up once during the night to find Tate sleeping beside him.
He was nauseated. He’d drunk way too much at Lowell’s house. He rolled over and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. Took a mouthful of that and then a painkiller, as well.
God. What a night.
What a crazy, fucked-up night.
What the hell was he going to say to Lowell in the morning? How was he supposed to look the man in the eye when he’d watched him fuck Aaron like that? Or worse, when Lowell had been like the fucking ringmaster or something, directing his little trained monkeys to dance?
The sudden wave of nausea that threatened him had nothing to do with the wine.
He lay back down, and Tate, still asleep, snuggled closer.
He carded his fingers through Tate’s curls, until he found that tiny knot of scar tissue below Tate’s hairline on the back of his neck.
The chip.
The chip that tracked Tate if he ran.
The chip that stopped him from being violent.
“They’re always happy.”
Oh God.
It was the chip.
Rory slept in the next day. Tate wasn’t surprised. He’d had a lot to drink the night before and had only made it home because Tate had loaned him his shoulder to lean on.
Even though Tate hadn’t drunk a drop, last night was a haze for him too. It lurked at the back of his mind as he bustled naked through the kitchen, putting on a pot of strong coffee and getting together ingredients for a big, greasy omelet for Rory.
Rory, his master. He sighed with pleasure and ignored the prickle of unease at the base of his skull. What had happened last night wasn’t dirty, wasn’t filthy or wrong. It was right because Rory and Lowell had commanded it. It was right because serving them felt good. Just because the very idea of it would have made him sick once, just because there was a part of him still screaming silently behind the locked doors in his head, that didn’t make it wrong. Just because the same fingers that had brushed Emmy’s soft, downy hair back from her forehead had last night been inside Aaron’s hole, every twist of them pulling pained noises out of him . . .
Tate froze, the knife poised above the cutting board.
No. He pushed the thought away before it hurt him. Before it tore through him like lightning. He needed to hold those thoughts at bay, to protect himself from the pain and the misery and the doubt.
It would all be better once Rory woke up. As long as Rory remembered his place as Tate’s master, then it would be so easy for Tate to remember his place on his knees. Rory would center him. Keep him sane. Make everything make sense.
Just as a master should.
With that thought to buoy him, he returned to his tasks, plating up the omelet and pouring the coffee and washing the dishes, whistling all the while with a half-filled erection bobbing between his legs. He was happy. He was happy, and Rory was happy, and—
Rory stood in the doorway of the kitchen, not s
miling. There were dark bags under his eyes.
“You startled me,” Tate said. He smiled. “Good morning.”
Rory stared at him, eyes widening, as though he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Grimaced as though he was in pain.
“I’ve made coffee,” Tate told him. “And maybe you should take a pain pill for your head.”
“I was drunk,” Rory said in a monotone.
“Yes,” Tate said. “I’ll get you a pill, and you’ll feel better.”
“No, I don’t care about that.” Rory frowned. “What the fuck happened last night?”
No.
Don’t you backslide now. I need you to be my master.
Tate swallowed. “I liked it. I liked it when you told me what to do. I liked it when you fucked me. I liked it when you watched me and Aaron on the floor.” There was a buzzing sound in his head, but he pressed on. “I liked it when I swallowed his cum. I pretended it was yours.”
Rory reeled away suddenly.
“Don’t,” Tate whispered. “Please!”
He followed Rory down the hallway, only to have the bathroom door slammed in his face. He leaned against it, his stomach twisting, as he listened to the sound of Rory retching in the toilet. Just like Tate himself had done that first time. But Tate was better now, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?
He hadn’t gotten sick last night, even with a belly full of cum. He’d lain down in his bed and closed his eyes and slept peacefully.
“Master,” he whimpered through the door, knocking gently. “Please, it’s all right. Please come out. I made you breakfast. Once you eat, you’ll feel better.” No reply. “Please, I want to make you feel better. I need to make you feel better!”
Silence.
And then the door cracked open. Rory poked his head out, eyes narrowed, face sickly pale. “What did you say? What did you just say?” His teeth were gritted, his hand on the door quaking, knuckles white. “What do you mean, you need it? Why do you need it, Tate? Did you need . . . did you need what happened last night?”
“I need . . .” He pushed the heel of his hand against his temple. “I need to serve you.”
“Why?” Rory demanded, his voice low.
“To fulfill my conditions,” he said. “T-to be rehabilitated. To be a better person.”
Rory opened the door. “But what if you’re not?”
“N-not what?”
“Not a better person.” There was a strange light in Rory’s eyes. “What if you’re a bad person?”
Tate flinched with pain.
“What if I don’t like you?” Rory said, stepping forward. Tate couldn’t read the look on his face. “What if I don’t praise you? What if I hate you?”
“Don’t,” Tate whined, a white flash of pain blinding him. He clutched his head. “Please, please, Master, don’t!”
“I hate you,” Rory said, his voice catching. “You’re worthless. You’re a criminal. You’re a waste of oxygen. You’ve failed.”
Tate’s knees gave out. He didn’t even feel it as he hit the floor. He was screaming, maybe. It felt like he was, but he couldn’t hear anything. He tasted blood. His heart was racing, his gut clenched, and every muscle tensed. He couldn’t breathe.
Then Rory’s hand was on his back. “Tate.”
He whimpered.
“You’re good,” Rory said, his voice shaky. “You’re so good, okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Nothing I said was true.”
The pain eased. He blinked through his tears at the floor. He was shaking and couldn’t seem to stop.
“The chip,” Rory said. “Tell me about the chip.”
“Can’t,” he managed. That taste of blood was back. “Please, can’t.” He spat, and a mouthful of stringy red saliva hit the floor. He needed to clean that up.
“Okay,” Rory said. “It’s okay. You’re good, Tate.” He rubbed Tate’s back in slow circles, even though Tate could sense he was just as upset and shaky as Tate was.
He pulled the hem of his shirt down to try to wipe the floor.
“Leave it,” Rory said, voice strained. “It’s okay. Just leave it.” He forcibly drew Tate back, and they ended up sitting together on the floor, backs against the wall and legs drawn up. Rory rubbed Tate’s hand, comforting him and keeping him from lunging for the stain at the same time. “I didn’t mean to make you hurt.”
“I know.”
“I just . . .” Rory shook his head. “Alexandra said that rezzies are always happy. When I saw Aaron, I should have seen it wasn’t right, it wasn’t him.” He laughed bitterly. “Aaron loved Lowell, but not like that. The night of the party he was trying to shake the guy off. Maybe he’s not even attracted to men.”
Tate stared at the blood on the floor and ached to wipe it clean.
“Oh fuck.” Rory flinched suddenly. “Tate?”
The buzzing in Tate’s skull was back.
Rory’s face was paler than before. His voice shook when he spoke. “Are you gay, Tate?”
“I serve you,” he whispered.
“Oh God,” Rory moaned. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. You’re not gay. You’re not gay.”
“I’m what you want, Master,” he said. He reached out for Rory’s hand and gasped when Rory pulled away.
Tate’s fault. His fault, somehow, for causing this. For, despite what he said, not being what Rory wanted. For not being able to serve him properly. For causing his master pain. For fucking everything up, just like always. Worthless. Waste of oxygen.
Rory stared at him, wide-eyed. He was shaking his head.
“Please, Master,” he begged. “Please let me make you feel good!” He lunged down into Rory’s lap, tugging desperately at the waistband of his pajama pants. “Please,” he moaned, pressing his face into Rory’s groin and finding no erection. “Please, please.” He rubbed his cheek back and forth, breathed deep, fondled, all the things that Rory usually liked.
“Get off me!” Rory pushed him away.
Tate cried out, the rejection hurting as much as a blow. He lay sprawled on the floor, panting for breath. “Please, please, please. It hurts.” His head was searing, the backs of his eyes burning.
Rory hitched up his pants, then laid his trembling hands on Tate’s back. He rubbed gently. “I like you.” His voice was a monotone. “You’re good, but I don’t want that. Okay? I don’t want that.”
Tate didn’t understand. Of course Rory wanted it. He always had. He wanted it, and Tate needed it. He cried into his hands, right there on the floor.
“Tate,” Rory said. “Tate, I need to get ready for work now. I need to . . . I need to go in today. Will you be okay?”
Tate wasn’t sure if he’d ever be okay again, let alone happy. He’d had it, for one brief shining moment last night, but it had all gone to hell again.
Rory drew in a shuddering breath. Closed his eyes and blew it out again. “I want you to clean the house, okay? I would be very pleased with you if you cleaned the house.”
Tate looked up cautiously, the beginnings of hope unfurling in his chest. “Yes, Master, I will clean the house.”
“Good.” Rory looked almost frightened, but he forced an uneasy smile. He cupped Tate’s cheek and gave it a gentle pat. “That’s good. You’re good.” He kept repeating the words, his gaze sliding from Tate’s face to the wall behind him. “You’re good, Tate. You’re good.”
Tate relaxed. He smiled at last, all his pain and misery washed away by his master’s words of praise. Washed clean.
Rory wanted to be sick. He didn’t even know how he’d finally managed to get dressed and get to work. He’d stared at his reflection in the window of the train as it had buzzed toward the city center. A monster. You’re a monster. You raped him. And now, sitting at his desk as he stared at the blank screen in front of him, he could hardly breathe.
Alexandra moved quietly through the office.
Lowell was in court. Good, because Rory didn’t know what to say to him. Lowell, with all his t
alk about justice and responsibility and leadership . . . Did he know? He couldn’t know. Except Rory couldn’t shake the horrible idea that maybe he did. That maybe he didn’t care if Aaron really wanted it or not, just that Aaron said he did and acted like he did.
Hell. Tate wanted it too. But the idea that his want came from the chip . . .
You raped him.
Rory heard Lowell’s booming laugh from somewhere out in the hall. He shook off his stupor.
“Rory.” Lowell appeared in the doorway. “I’m having an early lunch with Justice Gordon. Do you want to join us?”
“I’ve got a lot of work,” Rory managed.
“Maybe next time.” Lowell smiled. “How did you wake up this morning?”
“I’m hungover,” Rory said, hoping that would explain away his pallor.
“Ah,” Lowell said. “Still, we must do it again sometime. Get the boys together and have some fun.” He talked about it like it was so innocent. So normal. Nothing you couldn’t discuss at work. Like getting together for a night of cards.
Instead of a night of depraved . . . rape.
Rory was conscious of Alexandra moving around in his periphery. “Okay.”
Shit. Did he know? An honest politician, Rory had thought. A good man. Handsome, and friendly and charismatic. Always perfectly presented. Maybe what you saw was what you got, or maybe there was something frightening underneath. Just like Beulah itself.
Rory had no idea what to think.
The best of him. Assume the best of him.
Which meant Lowell needed to know. If he was a good man and he didn’t know, then he needed to know.
“How about you, Alex?” Lowell asked. “Fancy an early lunch?”
“I have to run these depositions down to court,” Alexandra said, blinking rapidly. “Sorry, sir.”
“All work and no play.” Lowell gave a little shake of his head. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to listen to Gordon talk about his grandkids on my own.”
