Ch 8 The Aftermath
I wake with a start, the jarring screech of the alarm cutting into me, like a meat-saw slicing through bone. I open my eyes groggily, staring at the dull, beige ceiling above me, as consciousness gradually finds me. Another day has dawned.
Fuck.
I shower quickly, get out and as I wipe the steam from the mirror, I take my reflection in with a sorry blend of dismay and acceptance. My eyes are hollow and drawn, vague blue-green rings forming semi-circles beneath them.
“Ah-li-verr,” I whisper, as I lean both hands on the sink, trying to say my name the way he used to say it, “Aah-li-ver.” I know it’s pathetic, believe me, I know. I shake my head and sigh.
You’ve got to pull yourself together, man.
I rub a little product roughly into my hair, casting my eyes down my body. I’ve lost weight. Not surprising. Food tastes like shit and I don’t have the strength or inclination to get to the gym. In short, I look exactly how I feel.
It’s been just over two months since the day I left him. Sixty-seven days, to be exact. I could tell you how many hours it’s been too, but I probably don’t need to. You get it, I’m sure.
As I walk out the door, heading to the station, the usual flutter of trepidation takes hold. Is today the day? The day I bump into him? I get onto the train, and before the doors even slide shut, I scan the carriage for him. So fucking stupid. I didn’t run into him once in twenty-six years, before the day Jess introduced us, so what makes me think he’s lurking around every corner now? But, after living like this for so long, I’ve almost given up trying to reason with myself, so without a fight, I allow myself to scan the crowd of commuters, as I walk the last two blocks to work.
Work: one upside of this nightmare. I’ve thrown myself at my work, working every hour I can, and it’s paid off. I got offered that promotion. It’s turned out to be a blessing and a curse. It’s a great opportunity and the money was too good to turn down, the downside is, the job is here. I’d been toying with the idea of moving back to Dublin for a while. I still have a lot of family there, and it would be a clean slate. No incessant searching for his face in the crowd there.
But instead, here I am.
Stuck.
I get through the day okay. Truthfully, work is the best distraction I have, so it’s with some regret that I head home that evening. It’s Friday. No work over the week-end. Just me. As the train sways and rocks me gently, my mind wonders and lands, as it always does, on Ethan.
I close my eyes and I’m back at his place. We’ve just finished fucking, and I’m coming out of the bathroom. I find him standing in the living room, hunched over slightly. He has something in his hands, it looks like he’s bringing it up to his face. I can’t see exactly what it is, but I’m taken by the way he’s looking at it. It’s not a look I’ve seen from him before. I can’t free spin place his expression exactly. I can only describe it as tender. My eyes wonder down. What’s he looking at like that? I don’t have a clear line of sight, but as he turns around, I’m startled to see that the thing he’s looking at, the thing in his hands…is my shirt.
He must hear me, because he starts in fright, and before I even have the chance to speak, he says, “Shut uuuup!” And jokingly tosses the shirt at my face.
*
I do my best to arrange my face into a bright smile, as I walk in the door. A couple of weeks ago Ben and Kip sat me down for an “R U OK” style intervention. They know something’s wrong and they’re doing everything they can to help. They’ve organized golf days, pub crawls, you name it, they are trying it. And, I appreciate it. Truly, I do. It’s just that everything they’re suggesting, seems like a nightmare to me. Right now, the only thing I want to do, is close my bedroom door and stay in bed.
I wait until the clock strikes 21h30 and with an exaggerated yawn, make my excuses and head to bed.
Thank God.
Peace at last. I lie back, sinking into my bed with the most abject relief. My body is exhausted, my bones aching as if they are flu-ridden. My mind wonders, what’s he doing right now? My belly constricts and to ease the pain, I let my mind wonder further.
I land on one of the last times I really topped him. We were at his place, in his room. I was sitting on the armchair in the corner, watching as I made him undress.
“Slowly!” I barked, pleased when I saw that uncertain little quiver of his chin.
He took his clothes off slowly, just as I instructed. When he was naked, I made him kneel and gave him the thick leather collar I had made for him. He took it in both hands, the look on his face, a picture, as he looked up at me questioningly. I raised my chin and nodded wordlessly.
He bowed his head slightly, as he fixed the collar round his neck, and I swear, the way he looked when he lifted his head. Oh God. The rawness in his eyes, his naked body, the black leather, tight around his neck… I swear, I damned nearly came in my pants.
I cuffed his wrists and led him to the spare room. I’d taken the punching bag down, and now, raising him up onto his toes, I hooked his wrist cuffs to the hook in the ceiling.
There are no words to describe what he looked like right then. Arms above his head, body stretched out, his legs taut, tiptoeing slightly. I ran my hand up his side and said quietly, “Are you going to do as I say?”
“Yes, Sir!”
Nnnggg
Oh, dear God.
I can’t tell you what that does to me. The way that he says it. He must have been in the ROTC, because he doesn’t “yes, sir”, insipidly, like everyone else. No, when he says it, he adjusts his posture, widening his shoulders and lifting his head. He looks straight ahead and with military precision, bonus veren siteler he speaks from his guts.
I hadn’t even touched him yet, and I was already on the brink. I knew I couldn’t make it, I had to adlib, no way I was going to make it through the scene I had planned in this state.
So, I stood in front of him and unzipped my fly, springing my rock-solid cock free.
“Is this what you want?” I ask.
“Yes, Sir!”
Nnggg
God, there it was again.
I started to stroke my dick slowly, putting on a show for him. I could see his agitation grow. He knew he was in no position to argue, but he could see I was going too far.
“Please,” he whimpered, at last, “don’t.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask coarsely. I want him to say it.
“No,” he tries again, “please don’t. D-don’t waste it.”
I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him, as I spurt all over the floor. He sucks a large breath in and closes his eyes, clenching his jaw as he moans softly. I steady myself. My head clears. Good move, I think. I’ll be loaded again in minutes, but now, I can tend to him properly, without my dick interfering.
I walk over to him and spin him around roughly. He spins and sways, trying to correct his unsteady footing. I stroke the sweet curve of his ass, before snapping on a single black, nitrile glove and lubing it up liberally. I see him clench his teeth, nostrils flaring slightly, as I delve into him without warning.
“Arrrgh!” He groans. I’m digging my fingers in and to the front, stroking that hot little spot, until his eyes roll back and pre-cum is streaming out of him like a spidery web. I snap the glove off and replace my fingers with a large steel plug. He struggles a little to take it, but with little grunt, his body sucks it in.
I move to kneel in front of him, taking him fully into my mouth, as deep as I can, again and again, until his legs are shaking.
“I’m going to cum!” He hisses through his teeth, knowing full well, his admission will stop me. And it does. I stop immediately. His whole body tenses and he’s groaning in desperate frustration, trying to steady himself.
His eyes are closed, but he opens them in quick surprise when he feels what I have instore for him next. I rub his nipples gently between my thumb and forefinger, pinching them into neat little peaks before compressing them tightly with small, black nipple clamps. Next, I tease him by rubbing the tip of his dick with the familiar feeling of a pussy-like fleshlight. He moans low, in gratitude, when I ease it down on him.
“You want this pussy?” I ask.
“Hmmmmm,” is all he can manage.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, sounding reasonable, “if you fuck this pussy well enough, I’ll let you come.”
His hips start jerking immediately, before I’ve even pushed it all the way down. He thrusts frantically, losing his footing once or twice, but even that doesn’t deneme bonusu veren siteler stop his hips from pistoning forward. I feel his orgasm rising and at the very last possible second, I rip the toy off him, leaving him thrusting uselessly into thin air, as I reach up and rip the nipple clamps off.
My head arches back in pure pleasure, as he screams, the sound coming straight from the bowels of the Earth.
His body is limp now, his legs have given way and he’s dangling from his wrists. I know I can’t leave him like that, so I say, “Will you be a good boy if I let you come down?”
“Yes, Sir.” He slurs, barely a whisper.
I take him down and lay him down on his back on the bench.
“I need to cum.” He says, over and over, like a mantra.
“I will let you come,” I say sympathetically, “but first, I’m going to fuck your pretty little mouth, and then, I’m going to fuck your tight little ass. Got it?”
His head nods unsteadily, “Just do it,” he begs, “please, just do it.”
I drag his body up on the bench a little, causing his head to hang over the edge slightly. I don’t have to tell him to open his mouth, he’s already licking his lips, jaws open wide. I take my time. No-one could say I wasn’t thorough, as I fuck his mouth until I’m shaking. I can’t help noticing that as I shove my dick down his throat, his hips are rocking back and forth involuntarily, twitching and convulsing with lust.
By the time I pull him down on the bench to access his rear, his arms are hanging loosely, splayed wide open, and his legs follow suit quickly. I gently ease the plug out of his ass, before replacing it with my dick, with a quick, hard thrust.
“Ow!” He flinches and tenses.
I breathe deeply, and slow. That sweet little sound cuts through my heart, dragging me out of my merciless trance and bringing me back to the present. I move slowly, letting him stroke his dick, watching in wonder as pleasure wracks his body.
*
And, I guess, that’s part of the problem of trying to get over Ethan. So many memories. So many epic fucks to replay in my mind. But as much as thinking of times like this time, with that punching bag hook, fucks me up. For some reason, it’s little things, like that shirt-thing, that fuck me up more.
I roll on my side, under the covers in bed, legs curled up close to my body, as I scroll through my phone until I find it. The only picture I have of the two of us. We’re on the jetty at the lake, I’m holding up that tiny little bass I caught, close to the camera, making it look bigger. I have a huge, toothy grin plastered all over my face and Ethan’s eyes and mouth are wide open in mock surprise, as he jokingly points to me and the fish. He’s slightly out of focus, but even so, the mere sight of him causes me physical pain.
I reach down and stroke myself quickly, orgasming without so much as a groan. Relief, but hardly any pleasure. Just “getting the poison out”, as Ethan would have said.
I switch off the light, and as the darkness envelops me, so does the sadness. Winding its way tightly around my chest and up my throat like a vice, until my jaw aches and my eyes burn, and with quiet, racking sobs, tears run wetly down my face.
*