“Above.”
An instant response. Shoveling dirt over the twinge of pain in my heart, I slip out of his ass and scoot back to lean my shoulders against the padded headboard. In seconds, he’s straddling me and grasping my face, his kiss mixed with sweat and desperation. He rises for me to line myself up again.
“Fuck, I could live inside you,” I moan as he sinks down, his ass greedily swallowing my cock until I bottom out.
“You’re… so much… deeper… like this…” he gasps. I plant my feet on the mattress, grasp his hips and thrust up. His eyes roll to the back of his skull. “Oh fuck.Fuckfuckfuck. Just— like—that.”
“That hitting your spot, baby?”
His moans border on sobs. “Yes, yes—fuck—”
My balls draw up with an impending orgasm. I’m unraveling. But he has to get there first. Hehasto. Grasping his throbbing cock in hand, he rides faster as my dick pounds his prostate over and over.
“Ineedyou to come, Win.” The cliff looms. My hips falter. “I can’t until you do.”
The plea has barely left my lips when he comes undone. I watch it descend over him, awed by the beauty of him falling over that precipice. I feel it spasm through him, carrying me over the edgetoo. I see it pulse out of him, painting us in the evidence of his climax while I fill him with endless streams of mine.
For ages or maybe only a few minutes, we float in a blissful haze, returning to ourselves in pieces. But when the fog clears, I find tears tracking down his cheeks.
45
Win
Seven Months Ago
Idon’t need to be cognizant to know what day it is. Every year, without fail, my body remembers. Pain flares in places long since physically healed. Phantom voices hiss and spit in my ears like surround sound. Everything tastes like dirt and despair. Fragmented images send me into a dissociative state. Breathing takes a conscious effort. Moving is impossible. Existing is unbearable.
It’s been six years since the worst day of my life.
And no one knows.
No one cares.
The remnants of whatever I snorted last night are almost out of my system. My stash is empty, but I can’t bear to do any of Mason’sfavorsfor more. Not today.
The old mattress creaks as I blindly grab the handle of vodka off the floor. But when I raise it to my cracked lips, I find it empty.
Like me.
It slips from my limp fingers. Glass shatters.
Maybe I’ll use it to cut. Bleed the agony from my veins. I haven’t since discovering the wonders of drugs. I don’t even ask what Mason gives me, I just take it; anything that will black out my mind is fair game. Especially before he takespayment.
But lately, he’s been stingy because what he wants is something I refuse to give. Apparently, it’s not enough to have me on my knees— he wants to defile the rest of me too. But to his frustration, no amount of promised oblivion can convince me. So he’s throwing a tantrum, threatening to cut me off if I don’t let him fuck me.
My phone buzzes again with what I’m sure is another demanding text. I turn it off and roll on my side, facing my bedroom door. It’s been uncharacteristically dark out today— some slap-dick on the news is rattling on about forest fires and bad air quality from Dad’s room. I hate the drone of TV nonsense, but he insists it helps him sleep so I don’t touch it.
That’s all he does now. Sleep. I tried to take him to the hospital last night when he was puking and shitting blood, but he snapped at me, “I don’t need some money-hungry doctor running a bunch of tests to tell me the same thing. I’m fucking dying, Win. They can’t do shit for me.”
It took everything in me not to say, “Yeah, well, at least I’m trying to help you. I’ve been dying for six years and you never fucking noticed.”
Instead, I locked myself in my room and haven’t left since.
How can a dying man expect care from an animated corpse?
I should check on him, but my body is too heavy. A migraine tunnels through my eye socket. Cold sweats soak my three day old clothes. Everything aches. I grind my knuckle into my sore eye and hoist myself upright.
The world tilts.
