by A. M. Sexton
Shame burned through me. It was one thing to be used. It was another thing to use somebody else, to be forced to degrade the boy. But then a small, soft hand took mine. He hadn’t stopped what he was doing, but he’d reached behind him to take my hand. He guided it to his ass.
Whatever he tells you to do, don’t hesitate.
Like me, he’d come in prepared. My finger slid easily inside of him. He whimpered, whether from shame or pain or pleasure, I didn’t know.
“Not so gentle,” Donato said to me. He let go of my hair, putting both hands into the boys blond locks. “Make him writhe.”
At least with him not hanging onto me, I was able to move into a better position, behind the boy. I wrapped one arm around his waist to cup his groin in my hand, and with the other hand, I pushed into him, three fingers wide.
His response was immediate. I felt his cock begin to grow stiff. He pushed his ass toward me, and there was no mistaking the sound he made this time, the desperation, the wordless begging for more. He sucked Donato, and I began to fuck him with my hand. Part of me didn’t want to like it, but it was hard not to. His cock was hard and heavy in my palm. He whimpered and moaned. He bucked against me, and whenever Donato pulled away enough to let him breathe, he’d pant out, “More. More.”
His cheeks were soaked with tears.
Finally, Donato pushed us both away. He ordered me to lie on my back on the bed. He made the boy straddle me. I almost wished for the boy’s sake that I wasn’t hard, but the pills had done their work, and Donato guided him down onto my cock.
He felt amazing, hot and slick, and I couldn’t help but moan as he settled onto my length. He almost smiled at me.
Almost.
And then Donato was behind him, pushing him forward, angling himself in behind the boy. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I felt the boy go rigid. I saw the pain register on his face, to be replaced a second later by undeniable pleasure. A strange new sensation hit me, one side of my cock unmoving inside of the slave, but on the top side, I felt Donato’s cock sliding against mine.
We were both inside the slave. He closed his blue eyes, and shifted to accommodate us. It had to hurt, but that meant it had to feel good, too, whether he wanted it to or not. His thick, heavy cock rose again. I began to reach for it, but Donato slapped my hand away.
And then he began to thrust.
I couldn’t move. Pinned beneath them both, I could do nothing but hang on and watch. The mirrors on the ceiling reflected our strained, animalistic coupling, warping our bodies the way my ildenaaf and the boy’s programming warped pain. It felt good. I couldn’t deny it. But watching the blond boy, I found myself conflicted, one minute inspired to pleasure by the heat I saw in his eyes, the next minute moved to pity and shame by the tears that streamed down his face.
My body betrays me.
How must it feel to hate Donato, and to hate what was being done to him, and yet to find himself begging for more?
And beg he did. Ashamed or not, he asked for it. He cried as he did so, but he pleaded, over and over again.
“Good little slave,” Donato panted. “Pretty little whore.”
I closed my eyes, blocking out the image on the ceiling of Donato pounding ruthlessly into the boy. I couldn’t deny how good it felt. The slave’s hot body wrapped around my cock and the friction of Donato’s thrusts against my erection made me moan. I couldn’t quite thrust, but I found myself squirming, moving my hips, caressing the boy’s soft, smooth flesh, reveling in the sounds he made. I thought about my own words. Would it be so bad to enjoy each other?
Donato fucked us harder, lost in his own pleasure. The beast controlled him, making him ugly, his face twisted with hatred and lust, his brow sweaty, his hair hanging in twisted tendrils around his face. When he looked at me, I saw none of the tenderness I’d witnessed on the yacht. His eyes betrayed no hint of apology or gentleness. Only lust and cruelty. He smacked the boy’s flank. He pounded into him, snarling his disdain for us, calling us filthy and nasty and pathetic. He abused us in every way he could, but in a way, we might not even have been there. We were the objects of his disdain and his lechery, the recipients of his sick, tormented desire, but we could have been any men at all. He had ceased to see us as even whore and slave. As he neared his own climax, he seemed almost to forget us.
If he could ignore us, I would do my best to ignore him, I reached up and hooked my hand around the boy’s neck. I pulled him to me. His gaze met mine as he let me pull him closer, eyes wet with tears and full of pain and unwanted desire and fear of what I would do.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whispered.
I kissed him. Even his mouth tasted like tears. That simple gesture seemed to break him. A sob broke against my lips, as if my kindness hurt him more than Donato’s cruelty.
I pulled his ear to my mouth. “Don’t hate yourself for something you can’t help,” I whispered.
His breath hitched. He dug his fingers into my chest. His body quaked. I held him, trying to absorb the violence of Donato’s thrusts. I kissed his cheekbone, and his temple, and finally, he turned toward me and let me kiss him again as Donato pumped away at us both.
I wished I knew the word that would release him, but I didn’t. I resigned myself to making it good for him without shaming him. I tried to give him something he could enjoy without embarrassment. I touched his cheeks and his lips. I caressed his sides. I ran my fingers down the string of tattoos on his chest. I kissed him as much as he allowed.
Finally, Donato finished, grunting like an animal. He didn’t even acknowledge us when he was done, still locked there together in the embrace he’d forced upon us. He pulled out of the boy and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The boy collapsed on top of me, crying still. His entire body shook, and I wrapped my arms around him. I stroked his hair. I tried to soothe him. Yet even now, he couldn’t stop what the Dollhouse had done to him. I was still inside of him, and even as he cried in shame, he moved and squirmed, driven to find the spot that felt best.
“Tell me what to do,” I said.
He shook his head. His voice broke as he said, “I don’t know the word!”
“But there must be some way I can make it better.”
His breath caught. His crying eased. He pulled away in order to look down at me with his striking blue eyes.
“I want to help,” I said again.
Really? he seemed to ask.
“Yes,” I answered out loud.
He smiled then. Such a sweet, innocent smile. It was hard to believe it blessed the face of a Dollhouse sex slave.
He leaned down and kissed me, testing me, a question looming in the tease of his tongue. He couldn’t come, but he could end things on his own terms, and I silently vowed I would let him. I would be there to catch him. I wrapped my arms around him again and gave him the answer he needed. Yes, take what you need. I won’t ask you for anything.
He sighed with relief and deepened our kiss. His body went soft as his muscles relaxed, the tension noticeably leaving his limbs. He shifted on me, moving his hips bit by bit, altering his position in almost imperceptible increments. Between soft hiccups that were the last traces of his tears, he began to sigh, smiling against my lips at the way our bodies fit together.
I hugged him and caressed him as he allowed the overwhelming pain and pleasure of what Donato had done to him to fade. I encouraged him to embrace the soft, pleasant sensation of me holding him and filling him. His movements became slow and languid, his kisses sweet. I played my finger over the smooth flesh of his back, hushing him until he lay still on top of me, his cock heavy and soft between us. He shuddered one last time and went still.
His face was buried in my hair, his lips brushing my ear. His soft breath warmed my neck. I kissed the side of his head. I stroked his curls. I wanted to say something, but what? I’m sorry? Please don’t hate me, too? Yet how could he not? How could I not hate myself?
And then, so quietly
I barely heard him at all, he spoke.
One hushed sentence.
Four whispered words.
“My name is Ayo.”
***
For a while, we stayed there, locked together in silence, but eventually he wiggled away from me. The il had finally worn off, and we took turns in the bathroom. Usually the butler came to tell me that the carriage was waiting, but not this time. The soft, clean bed called to me. I figured it couldn’t hurt to get some sleep, so I slid under the covers. The boy—Ayo, I reminded myself—sat stiffly on the side of the bed.
“I don’t know if I should go back to my room or stay here,” he whispered. “He won’t want us to be friends, but if I go back without him ordering me...”
“I’d like you to stay.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me, but after several seconds, he crawled under the covers with me. We lay there, not touching, both of us silent and unmoving. Outside, the sun was falling. Inside, the light faltered, casting long dusty shadows, coating everything in the orange of the sunset, making the world surreal.
“How long have you been here?” I whispered. I wasn’t completely sure it was necessary to remain quiet, but caution was rarely a mistake.
“Three years,” he whispered back. “I think. Maybe only two. I lose track of time a lot.”
I closed my eyes. A slow, terrible rage brewed inside of me. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s better now that he has you. He uses me a lot less. I think you bring out the best in him.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry. I thought of how Donato had looked earlier that night. The disdain on his face as he fucked us. Was that the best of him? I knew it wasn’t, and yet, it was hard to remind myself otherwise. “Is he ever kind to you?”
“Sometimes he buys me things. Mostly little trinkets, but my favorite is when he brings me pears from Deliphine. They’re the best gift. Or sometimes he has the butler bring me hot chocolate, because he knows I like it. But he doesn’t really talk to me. It’s like he can be cruel, or he can feel guilty, but nothing else. He can’t be normal with me.”
I thought of my time with Donato on the boat and the tenderness he’d shown me. The gift he’d given me. Floating in the sea.
Ayo didn’t even have that.
I reached over to touch his arm, but he pulled away from me. No wonder, too. He probably assumed I was going to try to fuck him. “Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight,” I answered back.
At some point later, I woke to total blackness. Soft flesh whispered against mine.
It took me a second to remember where I was, and who I was with. It was Ayo, not asleep, but suddenly next to me, touching me, crawling gently on top of me. I felt his oversized cock between us, not erect, but soft and warm, and I was ashamed at how my own body immediately began to respond.
His hair brushed my cheek and I reached up to push it away from his face, although in the dark, I couldn’t see his expression. Only shadows.
“Will you kiss me again?” he asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
He still tasted like tears. He was shy at first, but quickly grew bolder, letting me tease his lips apart with my tongue. He melted against me, sighing softly. I stroked his back and he arched toward my touch as if he’d never felt anything so blissful.
“Kiss me here,” he whispered, guiding my lips to the spot just below his ear.
I was happy to oblige him. I rolled us over so I was on top, making it easier to explore his pale neck. He went limp, relaxing in my arms, somehow offering himself up to me. He had the softest skin I’d ever touched, and no matter where I touched him, whether teasing his flesh with my fingertips or tasting it gently with my tongue, he sighed and clutched at me. His fingers tangled in my hair, although he never pulled. I moved lower on his stomach. With one hand, I reached down to explore the strangely hairless skin around his groin. His cock was hard now, although I didn’t touch it yet. Instead, I stroked his hips. I caressed the cord of flesh between his legs. I cupped his balls in my hand.
“Misha,” he whispered, as I circled his navel with my tongue. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Why not?”
“If he finds out...” He took a deep, shaky breath. “He’d hate it!”
“Then we’ll do it to spite him.”
He made a sound—a strange, breathy sound. It took me a moment to recognize it for what it was. He was laughing. “You’re insane.” But there was a note of awe in his voice.
“Tell me when to stop,” I said, because without his trigger word, he’d never finish the normal way.
And then I took his cock in my mouth.
He gasped, and for the first time, his fingers dug into my scalp. He pushed me down while thrusting his hips up. It was purely instinctive, I knew, that need to push deeper. But he was too big for me to swallow all the way, and instinctively I jerked away to keep from gagging.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be. You can do anything to me you want.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
There was a terrible brittleness to his voice. A tremulous note, asking if that’s what he’d done.
“You won’t,” I assured him.
I sank down onto him again, swallowing as much of him as I could. He sighed happily as I moved on him. His soft hand stroked my shoulder. He was trembling, but otherwise motionless. He seemed to like what I was doing, and yet he was so still. I began to wonder if I was doing something wrong.
I stopped, looking up to meet his eyes in the low light. “Do you want me to quit?”
“No.”
But it sounded more like a question than a statement. “Tell me what you want.”
“I’m not sure that I know.”
“I’ll do anything. I’ll kiss you or suck you or let you fuck me. Or we can go back to sleep if you want. Anything.”
He laughed again, such a quiet, breathy sound, as if he’d had to muffle every laugh he’d ever had. But he rolled us onto our sides. He used his hand in my hair—just like Donato, and yet nothing like him at all—to guide my mouth back to his cock. This time, I quit trying to lead. I went loose and let him direct me. I let him hold me while he moved very slowly in and out of my mouth, as if exploring what each inch of his flesh could experience. More than anything, he liked me to concentrate on his tip. He spent a long time there, moving his foreskin against my lips, thrusting slowly and gently against me, all the while making soft, hushed sounds, not only of pleasure, but sounds that spoke of surprise. Of amazement and delight. He’d been beaten and fucked and fisted and used, but I knew without asking that nobody had ever given him this kind of pleasure.
At last, he pulled free. He was panting quietly, his whole body trembling. “We need to stop,” he said. “It gets painful after a while.”
I climbed back up the bed. He reached down to wrap his hands around my erection. I couldn’t help but moan, but it made me feel dirty, too. “Do you want me to—?”
“No,” I said, pushing his hand away. It was partially a lie. I wanted him desperately. I wanted to let him continue to stroke me. I wanted to rub my cock against him and come all over his pale, silky stomach while kissing his sweet lips. But then I thought about how often demands like that had been made of him. “You deserve at least one night that’s just for you.” I kissed his cheeks and was a bit dismayed to find them wet with tears. “What’s wrong? What did I do? Whatever it is, I’m sorry!”
“What? Why? Please don’t be sorry, Misha!”
“I made you cry.”
He reached up to touch my lips with his soft fingers. “I cry a lot. But these were good tears.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” His cock was still hard, pressing against my thigh. He pushed a bit, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, but then he settled into my arms with a sigh. I held him and kissed his blond curls. “It was so different, Misha.”
“What was?”
“Feeling real pleasure without the programming behind it. Without the pain. I never knew. I had no idea.”
He said it without bitterness, a simple statement of fact. That alone was enough to break my heart. I wanted to tell him I’d never let Donato hurt him again, but it would have been an idle boast. There was nothing I could do. Instead, I pulled him closer. I held him tight. And I vowed that I’d get him away from Donato, one way or another. I’d burn the city to the ground, and Donato with it, if that’s what it took.
“Where did you come from? Before the Dollhouse?” It was something I’d wondered many times. Had he been on the street, like me, before the Dollhouse found him? Or had his mother handed him over to them? “Surely you weren’t raised there?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. If I try to think back before I lived with him, it’s like I get confused and find myself thinking about something else.”
“That black spot?”
“Yes. It swallows everything.”
“Except the pain?”
“The pain I can handle. It’s the shame of being forced to like it that I hate.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine.” But his hand moved from my chest for a moment. He sniffled, and I realized he was crying again, not making a sound, but silently wiping his tears away. “Sometimes I can’t tell where the programming ends and I begin. It’s not that I even mind so much that it’s there, but I wish they’d done it some other way.”
“Like what?”
“They could’ve programmed the tears away, too. They could have made it so I enjoyed it, and never felt bad about it afterward. I think a lot about how that would be, to be programmed to be happy with whatever he gave me.” He shook his head. “I hate him for not letting me have that.”
I kissed his blond curls. “You wouldn’t be human then.”
“Sometimes I think I’m not human now.”
“Ayo—”
“It doesn’t matter. That wasn’t what he wanted. He likes it when I cry. Making me hate myself is what he enjoys most.”
