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Charles closes his eyes and urges himself to think of something nice. He leans his head against the headboard, thankful for the support.
Slowly, he exhales. In and out.
Today is Monday. His name is Charles. Neo-Darwinism states that genetic variation arises by mutations, including chromosome mutations and gene mutations.
Stupid Charles, how is that nice? That’s neutral. Like talking about the weather. But he has to remember. Nice nice nice. What’s nice?
God it hurts so much. He tries and he tries but oh there’s nothing. There’s nothing nice left in him. There’s nothing in him.
Nothing but an erect penis. Because that’s what it is. A male’s genitals, a sex organ that grows erogenous when stimulated with pleasure. If that is the penis, then he is the point of insertion, a tool for breeding. But humans have moved past intercourse as a means for reproduction to intercourse as a means for pleasure. Oh how they have evolved.
It goes in and out at a punishing pace. More like inoutinoutinout.
Breathe Charles, breathe. In and out.
If he cannot summon nice thoughts to him, perhaps the next best thing would be to not be.
In and out.
He would pretend to be non-existent. The fly on the wall, to be swatted away by one of the servants with a fly swatter; the loose string on his mother’s dress that she yanks out in irritation; the dust on his late father’s books, the dust he would brush off when his nostalgia and longing persuades him to open them.
He wished he could go back. In.
Charles is not here. Charles is drifting, falling, suspended (what does it matter?) in a state of nothing. It overwhelms him, fills him up to the brim.
Out.
Charles does not feel. He will not feel.
Why won’t he feel?
A slap to his sore buttocks, probably red with abuse. Use.
“Fuck dude. That was fucking hot. You just take it like the slut that you are, don't you?” The voice says from behind him. Where did he go?
Charles is silent.
“Yeah that was hot. While it lasted. I’m sure you got a bunch of other cheap fucks waiting for you.”
Charles doesn’t think that man realizes that he is describing himself as another ‘cheap fuck’ as well.
Charles picks up his clothes, tries not to wince at the pain. He puts them on. Leaves.
On the way out, Charles sticks his hands in his pocket, feels for the crumpled notes in his pocket. Enough to survive, never enough to live.
He runs a hand through his hair frustratedly.
He’d have to work harder.
-
Charles likes to think that the pain gets better. This is what he tells himself when it becomes unbearable.
At least it’s not his first time, at least he knows what to expect, at least he knows to ask for payment upfront now.
He remembers his first. The first push had been brutal, whoever it was was unforgiving in pushing into his tight hole. Because that’s what he was. A hole, a whore. That’s what they were thinking. Or that’s what he was thinking.
It’s hard to tell when his mind is a fog, so it’s always easier to accept whatever comes his way.
Charles closes his eyes, breathes. In, out. He leans his head against the wall. It’s flimsy, and probably very filthy. It’s not like he could expect any less for a tiny toilet cubicle.
Hiding behind walls, hoping that no one would hear their moans, or groans. Or cries.
Inoutinoutinout.
How ironic it is, that he has to die to earn the means to survive.
-
Charles doesn’t know where to put his hands. It’s a silly thing to be thinking about, when he’s grinding down against someone. But all his expensive textbooks and all his personal tutors had never taught him on the art of giving lap dances, so he thinks his inexperience could be forgiven.
Nothing he learnt there prepared him for this.
He didn’t think he was prepared when he left either.
Charles wraps his arms around the neck of the man for support. Continues grinding. Opens his mouth to make some noises, look alive.
What must it feel like, Charles wonders, to be on the receiving end instead?
Charles takes a risk, lowers his shields.
Gets bombarded by pleasure. Sees nothing but pleasure. Sees nothing but his own pleasure. Nothing but himself. Him, him, him. Just him.
Charles closes his eyes, wishes he had never gone in. Is that what he is? A hole? A tool? An object?
Is he even there?
-
There’s a hand on his cheek.
Charles opens his eyes, slowly. He didn’t expect it to not be a slap.
“Tell me your name, my boy.”
Charles stares dumbly at the man, urges himself to think, to comprehend the question. He asked for his name. His name. Charles’ name.
“Hmm?” the man continues, his tone encouraging, his tone kind. His thumb strokes his cheek. Tender.
He tries to remember what the man was like before he brought him to his bed. Blurred faces come to his mind, a voice maybe? There were hands on him, but then again, there are always hands on him. Charles stopped noticing all of this a while ago. Until now.
The man doesn’t move his hand away.
“Charles.” His voice is choked, a mere rasp.
The man smiles, pleased. He brushes his thumb over Charles’ bottom lip. Charles can feel a flush rising up to his cheeks. He hopes the man finds it alluring. Oh please let the man find him alluring.
He hopes the man sees him.
“Charles,” the man repeats. It should be odd, how his name sounds so much better coming from a stranger’s lips, but the man says it with such wonder that Charles feels like he knows him.
Can he see into Charles’ soul? Does he even have one?
Stupid Charles. He doesn’t even know his name.
“Sebastian Shaw,” he says, as if he could tell what Charles was thinking. “Just for today, you can call me Sebastian.”
Charles nods, dumb.
The man - Sebastian - tilts his head up. “Say my name, Charles.”
“Sebastian,” Charles whispers, hesitant and unsure.
Charles feels like he’s looking into his being, parts of him that he buried long ago. Charles is only a part because the rest of the parts are lost. When did he become far apart from Charles?
“Lovely,” Sebastian purrs. Charles’ neck is starting to hurt from the way he’s holding his chin up, but it’s a small price to pay to have someone touch him like this. He brushes his thumb over his chin, trails a finger down to his throat. He’s sure he can feel his pulse, strong and fast. His heart beats loudly, deafening in the otherwise silent room but Charles isn’t paying attention to it. His eyes are fixed on Sebastian, ridiculously wide.
Sebastian smirks, probably acutely aware of the power he has over him. He strokes his finger against Charles’ pulse point. Once, twice. He presses against it, applying the faintest of pressure. Charles can scarcely breathe.
He can’t help the small noise that leaves his throat.
He removes his hand, takes a step back from him. “Strip.”
“Slowly,” Sebastian says sharply when Charles’ shaking hands scramble to pull the shirt off his head. Charles hesitates. Feeling Sebastian’s gaze lingering on him, never leaving, Charles continues to remove his shirt, bit by bit. After some thought, he sways his hips from side to side, but flushes when he realizes the movement is uncoordinated with his arms.
Sebastian’s gaze is still on him when the shirt has been removed. It never leaves even as Charles awkwardly bundles his shirt in his hand.
Charles’ heart is beating at a frenzied pace. He’s never been looked at like this. He’s never been looked at at all. Feeling self-conscious, Charles wraps his hands around himself, which gets Sebastian tsking at him.
“Don’t hide yourself from me, Charles. I want to see you,” he says. Charles lets his hands drop to his side. Sebastian smiles. “All of you.”
Charles pulls his trousers off, unsure of how to make the move seem sexy. Not that him removing his shirt was particularly sexy, but it just seemed like Sebastian was pleased by it, what with the way he was staring at him like he was a person worth looking at -
“Lie down, Charles,” Sebastian says, gentle yet commanding. It sends a shiver down Charles’ spine as he scrambles to obey.
He gets on his hands and knees; most people like it that way, with his face obscured from sight. He tries to push his ass upwards in an enticing manner, but it feels clumsy and forced. Charles bites his lip. What if he doesn’t -
“I said lie down Charles. On your back.” Charles shrinks at his harsh tone. Quiet , he tells himself irritably. Pretend he's not human, pretend he's a hole, pretend he's an object. He must not look alive. Except to moan. And clench.
Sebastian trails two fingers down his side. “I want to make you feel good,” he murmurs. “Lie on your back, Charles.”
Charles is only too happy to oblige. He strains his neck to look up, to look at Sebastian. He’s still fully clothed, black tailor jacket over crisp white dress shirt over maroon turtleneck.
Sebastian pushes his legs apart. Charles flushes, feeling completely exposed. He feels acutely aware of his cock, already half-hard. Sebastian wraps a hand around his member, pumps it once, twice, at a torturous pace. Charles gasps, unable to help himself. When was the last time he was touched like this?
Sebastian rubs his head with his palm, smearing pre-cum everywhere. Charles lets out a groan. Fuck. “Very good, Charles. You’re practically leaking for me.”
He rubs his head with his thumb now. “Tell me, Charles, who else has touched you like this, hmm? Who else has touched you like me, made you feel good?” Sebastian asks, applying more pressure on the slit. Charles keens at the sensation. It’s so good, so good, so good oh…
The hand around his cock tightens, almost to the point of pain, making Charles gasp. “Did I not ask you a question, Charles?” Sebastian asks.
“Yes, yes ah-” Charles breaks off with a cry.
“And?”
“You, f-fuck only you Sebastian, only you - uhn .” Sebastian releases his hold on his cock. Charles doesn’t know if he wanted him to continue or if he wanted him to stop.
“Good,” Sebastian murmurs. He cups his cheek, smearing his own pre-come on his face. Charles is sure he’s beet red, first from the pleasure and now from the embarrassment.
“Suck.” Charles opens his mouth to take his fingers in. He swirls his tongue around them, tasting the pre-come - his pre-come - and sucks. He risks a glance at Sebastian who is, as always, watching him, eyes dark. Encouraged, Charles takes his fingers deeper and moans around them.
They pull out of his mouth with a ‘pop’.
The next thing he knows, the fingers are encircling the pucker of his ass. They press gently on his hole, enough for Charles to feel it but not enough for it to go in.
Charles takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the worse. He has to relax, he will make this good for Sebastian.
Two fingers are pushing into his hole. Charles is tight, but not overly so. He has prepared beforehand, after all. God knows he doesn’t want a repeat of his first.
“Prepared yourself, have you? Did you line yourself up as a hole for anything with fingers or a cock to push into you?” Sebastian’s voice brings him back to reality.
Charles moans at the burn as the fingers start to scissor him. He adds a third one, and slowly thrusts them in and out of him. Then, they’re back in him, pushing deeper and deeper and -
Charles lets out a high-pitched moan. Fuck, fuck that felt good.
“W-what?” Charles stammers out, gasping as Sebastian’s fingers hit that magic spot again.
“It’s called a prostate, Charles. Only I can make it feel good. Yes?” Sebastian circles his asshole, then pushes in to press against that spot - his prostate - again. Charles nods, moaning again as the fingers go in and out of him.
“Yes?” Sebastian asks, pressing harshly against his prostate.
“Uhn, yes, yes,” Charles stammers out, feeling bliss as his fingers pump in and out of him. Charles thrusts his hips back against, trying to follow his rhythm.
“Don’t move, Charles,” he says, pulling his fingers out. Charles whines at the loss of contact. He wants them back in him.
“Please,” he whispers.
Sebastian pats his check. “Be good.” He adds a fourth finger, and goes at a painfully slow pace, a far cry compared to the fingerfucking a few moments ago. Slow isn’t any less good, slow means he spends more time pushing against his spot, making Charles see stars.
Charles wants so much to thrust against his fingers, to get more, to touch himself but Sebastian told him not to move and oh he wants to be good. It’s the least he could do, to thank him for making him feel good.
Charles loses himself to the bliss of the sensation, eyes fluttered closed and mouth probably open as his moans get progressively louder.
Charles’ fingers twitch. He’s so close. He can feel the pre-come leaking onto his belly. He needs more, oh God -
Sebastian slaps his hand away from his cock. “You come from my fingers, or you come from nothing at all.”
Charles groans. Is that even possible? But yet again, he never thought it was possible to feel good from something in his ass.
The fingers continue their assault on his asshole. Charles moans, feeling his balls tightening and oh God he’s coming he’s coming fuck it feels so fucking go od. He expects Sebastian to remove his fingers after his cock stopped spurting but he doesn’t, continues fucking him at the same pace as before. Charles gasps.
“Too much,” he groans out. The fingers pull out, but moments later they’re on his cocking, stroking him. He strokes his cock harshly, quickly, using his come as lube. Charles trembles and moans, unable to do anything but to submit to the sensation of pleasure-tinted pain. He can feel his stomach clenching and it hurts but it feels good and at the same time and it’s too much. Sebastian just keeps stroking and stroking and pressing his fingers into the tip, making Charles let out a high-pitched moan. He’s never been touched there before, oh…
Sebastian eventually lets go of his cock. “Continue touching yourself, Charles,” he says, guiding Charles’ hand to his cock. “I’ll be back. If I see that you’ve stopped, I won’t be happy.”
Charles’ hand is shaking but he does his best to continue stroking, despite his body’s protests for him to stop. He hears the door shut. Did he leave? Oh God why did he leave? His eyes flutter closed. Was Charles not good?
Charles rubs faster, more frantically. Maybe if he showed that he was really trying, Sebastian would come back. It’s starting to feel good, amid the pain. Charles groans, not daring to stop.
It feels like forever when the door opens again.
Sebastian sighs, a long-drawn-out one, as if Charles was pleasing him. It’s something, an achievement, to have made a sigh happen. Charles has heard plenty of moans, drawn out many groans. But a sigh, a small, subtle release of breath, slow and steady as if to savour the moment, oh Charles never knew he was capable of inspiring such emotion.
“Sebastian,” Charles whispers. His name is sacred, a blessing. It is a blessing to have someone whose name can be whispered like a prayer. Before him, Charles had nothing.
Sebastian has two fingers on his chin, thumb below and index above. “Don’t stop, my boy. You can only stop once you’ve come again.”
Charles whimpers. He doesn’t know if he can, but if Sebastian believes that he can then surely he can. He tries sliding his finger over his head, but cries out because the pleasure was blinding, overwhelming. He’s pretty sure he’s crying and he can’t stop because everything is too much, too overwhelming.
Slowly, thankfully, he feels himself starting to harden again. He continues his assault on his poor, used, cock.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been touching himself for when Sebastian says, “Come for me.”
And Charles wails as he comes. Sebastian watches, drinking in the sight of him.
Oh he sure hopes that he’s pleased.
-
Charles doesn’t remember falling asleep, or waking up. He only remembers being sore, and being bombarded with pleasure. Waking up sore isn’t new to him. Work hazard.
Pleasure is new. It would be sweet, if not for the tenderness in his hole.
Fingers push their way through, poking, probing, prodding.
Even in his sleepy state, Charles’ body reacts to the assault, jerking and twisting in an attempt to get away. No , Charles thinks, no.
“Did I say you could move?”
Instantly, Charles stills. Sebastian. It’s Sebastian. Sebastian wouldn’t harm him. Sebastian knows what’s best for him.
“Good.”
Charles shivers. Yes , he thinks, yes . The overwhelming desire to please, to be good, breaks through his blurry haze.
Sebastian strokes Charles. Charles can only close his eyes, and surrender his body to the sensations.
-
Charles surrenders his body to Sebastian.
It’s bliss.
-
Time passes weirdly when
He’s with Sebastian.
It’s like living everything and nothing all at once. Seconds stream away like tears, seconds stand still like air when you’re suffocating.
-
Charles closes his eyes. Sees black. Opens them. Sees white.
Has it always been like that?
There are white walls because the walls are white. Bright white, pure white, hospital white, unfeeling white, bleak white, empty white, striking white, blunt white, sharp white, blinding white, loud white, eerily silent white, all-encompassing white, suffocating white, everything-is-nothing-but-white white, look-too-long-and-drown white, screaming-at-how-you-don’t-fit-in white, haunt-you-for-all-your-lonely-days-and-nights-and-be-your-only-everything white. White white. Just white. Only white. Nothing but white.
White.
Charles closes his eyes.
Charles opens his eyes. He looks at the white walls.
He views the white walls. He glances at the white walls. He studies the white walls.
They’re white walls.
Sebastian has white eyeballs. Sebastian has Charles locked in a room with white walls. And black pupils. Sebastian has black pupils.
Do the voices in his head scream because the world is silent or is the world silent because the voices scream?
Charles studies the white walls for answers. All he gets is white.
Sebastian wore a white suit today. Or was it yesterday?
White.