Tag: hurt/comfort

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

dijkstra0:

Another stray pup. Will someone please give him a forever home.

Roger crouched down and set the Big Mac box in front of him. It smelled amazing. He opened it up so the pup could see it. The pup was watching him for sure now. He tossed the creature a french fry. The pup took an immediate interest in it, and crept forward to gobble it up. Roger smiled. No one disliked fries. He ate some himself to show that they were safe.

Over the course of half an hour, Roger tossed the fries closer and closer. When the pup was wary of Roger, he decided to up the game by offering a big piece of the hamburger. The pup couldn’t resist that.

Within ten minutes, the skinny pup was eating the Big Mac out of his fingers.
“Good boy, good boy,” Roger cooed. He grabbed the pup’s harness, which made him instinctively want to flee. He whimpered and pawed at the ground, trying to skitter.
“No no, sshhhh. It’s ok. Come on. Be a good boy. That’s it. Oh you’re a big boy, let me hug you.” Roger wrapped his arms around the pup. “You’re all skin and bones! You want another burger?”
“Bark!”
“I think we can arrange that. But you have to come in the car with me ok? The doors will be unlocked.”
The pup eyed him.
Roger offered a fry.
The pup grabbed it.
“That’s a good boy. Come on! Let’s get you inside and fed huh boy? You won’t be stray any longer than this.”
“Bark bark bark!”

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Text is fictional.

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When you move into a new building, every face is a new face. When you see a face again, you assume they live there, as opposed to being a guest. You make snap judgments about people, cause you only see them for a second. Oh, this person is cranky, this guy talks too much, that girl is always covered in cat hair, this dude never leaves the building…. etc. Struggling families. Single guys. Ambitious corporate types. Lonely old people. Every building has them. I began to notice this young man that lived on my floor. I normally saw him taking out trash or fetching mail. I never saw him with a school bag, but grocery bags, or baskets of laundry. What I found to be odd though is that he never looked at me. He always looked down, away, as if he couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him. When we got stuck in an elevator together, he would always move far away as possible.

I didn’t know much about this guy, not even his name. I could see he was young, in his late teens maybe. I knew he lived with an older man, a real stern guy about ten years older. Maybe in his 40s. Ramrod straight posture, ice grey eyes. He was well on the path to be the quintessential old-white-guy stereotype: loud, angry, and racist. And his voice – he had a big, booming voice he used to scare anyone who didn’t agree with him into submission. It was also the voice he used to yell at Obama on the TV. At least, that’s what I thought he was yelling at, until I started listening. Then, I realized it wasn’t the TV the old guy was screaming at – it was the young man.

The more I began to pay attention, the more I saw things I don’t think I was meant to see. Or maybe I was. I assumed the kid was kind of a klutz, but I slowly realized that I never saw him without a mark. He always seemed to have a bruise on him. Once it healed, it’d be replaced by a split lip, then later with another bruise. A cut on his hand. A limp to his walk.

About seven months after I moved in, I came home one night and found him sitting outside their apartment door, naked, all crouched up into a ball. I begged the kid to tell me what was going on, but he refused and insisted I leave. My noise caused commotion, and the old guy came out and threatened to call the cops on me. He dragged the kid back into the apartment and slammed the door.

I didn’t see the kid for like a week, and when I saw him in the elevator that next Saturday, he had white bandages under his shirt, all up his neck.

It was a strange situation, because you know something bad is happening, and you know you should say something. But you also know reality, and you know the cops will come, the old guy will say nothing is a matter. He was fighting with his grandson or something, trying put his “mouthy” troublesome grandson in place. Without a complaining witness, the cops would leave…and that kid would probably get hurt more.

I began to dread seeing that kid around the building, because it was just a reminder that I couldn’t stop what was happening to him. I finally hit my breaking point after the kid got the bandages off. I spotted him in the laundry room in the basement in this old white T-shirt. Where the bandages had been now revealed fresh, pink skin. He’d been burned. White heat coursed through me. We were alone, I had to say something. So, I did. I said, “If you need me, I’m in apartment 10J. Don’t let anyone hurt you again.”

The kid furrowed his brow at me, then looked away, his face a mask of shame. He gathered his things and left the laundry room without saying a word.

I hadn’t expected him to take my advice to heart. I expected to come home one day and find cops in front of the door, the door blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. I learned to not hear the screaming or the fights.

One spring night, about a year or so after I moved into the building, there was a knock on my door. It was just after dinner time, and I was headed to the kitchen for ice cream when the knock came. I figured it was the lady in apartment 10K telling me she had my mail again. I was surprised to find the kid standing there, white as paper. Blood was pouring out of his nose, marring his handsome face, and pooling in his hand.

“Jesus, shit,” I gasped. The kid was too frightened to say a word. We both heard the old guy turn the knob and come out of his apartment. I grabbed the kid’s sleeve and pulled him into my apartment, then slammed and locked the door. The old guy began to beat on my door, accusing me of “kidnapping his houseboy” and that I should “give him back so he could take his punishment”.

Instead, I called the cops. The rest of the evening melted together. The old guy was arrested, the kid had to be taken to the hospital. He told the EMTs his name was Trevor.

I made sure Trevor got a good lawyer. I later found out that I was the only one that visited him in the hospital. On one of these visits, Trevor told me everything one night. He grew up in foster care. His last foster family used to “loan” out the kids as maids, essentially, for money. When Trevor turned 18, he was turned out of the foster care system with no GED (missed too much school), no money (not allowed to work), and no family. So, when his family offered him an opportunity to be a live-in houseboy for Mr. Erickson, Trevor felt he had no other choice.

Trevor broke my heart when he told me he didn’t leave at first because he assumed the abuse was normal. It was only seeing an article in the newspaper about a Filipino woman kept as a sex slave did he realize what was happening to him, but he was completely trapped.

I told Trevor he was not going to be alone anymore. I stood by his side the whole time. When my lease in the building came up, I declined it, and Trevor and I moved into a new building together.

I was worried though that Trevor would think of me just another man wanting to monopolize and abuse him, so the first thing I did was give him a promise gift. Inside the box was the key to the front door on a chain and a new cell phone. He would always be a free boy now, but I was offering him a home if he wanted one. Someone needed to love and take care of Trevor. If he trusted me, I
promised myself I would do that and more. I would never let him feel
unwanted again. 

______________________
Text is fictional.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

There is praise I can never give you, for there are not words, or emotions, or smiles to convey how much I am grateful for you. You somehow, always, telepathically know when I’m at my worst. It’s usually after therapy, but sometimes just for no reason. Those are the days when the medication isn’t working, and I just can’t get out of bed. I don’t know why you want to be with a guy suffering from clinical depression. I mean, I love you, but it’s hard for me to show it. I don’t feel like I deserve to love you, or if I’m even loving you right at all, because I don’t feel many emotions. I mostly feel just negative ones. I always feel unworthy of you.

Yes, I know that release of endorphins and hormones from sex is healing and therapeutic. You know that making me have release can help wash my brain of the crap inside so that the drugs can move in and start working. I just struggle to initiate it. I mean, I struggle to lift my spoon. And yet you somehow, magically, see every time when I need it the most. You swap out my underwear for jockstraps while I’m showering and so of course, I put them on. I feel sexier that way, which enforces a positive body image. Still, I just can’t make myself go after you but you always, always come to me.

You climb into bed with me and pry me off of the pillow. You scoop me into your arms and kiss me, like I’m Sleeping Beauty. You make me feel treasured, and curiously flattered when your hand squeezes my ass. You rub against me and make me forget everything – how depressed I am, how deep in debt I am, how bleak my future is. You remind me that my future has you in it too, and just maybe, I can climb out of this hole.

Your embrace becomes this warm envelope of hope and humanity. You turn my sorrow into silk. For that, and all the ways you’ve supported me, I will always love you. And because of that, I have stopped thinking about suicide; because if the afterlife is absent of you, I do not want to go.

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Text is fictional. “You turn my sorrow into silk” is a lyric from giselle’s Silk. The Favored Nation’s remix is pretty good too. By the way, if any of you have suicidal thoughts, please call 1-800-273-8255 or your nation’s helpline.

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My phone chimes. I pick it up. It’s Grey. Such a cool name, very classic. He’s running late. I can’t remember what he does for a living, something involving archiving at a museum. He was by far one of the best candidates that responded to my ad. Still, I’m restless. I’m torn because I need someone to pay the other half of the rent, but part of me isn’t ready to share this space yet. My heart still feels raw and burnt, the sickening pain from the discovery of adultery has left me numb and taken the color out of the world.

I honestly thought I did everything right. I was a good boyfriend to Jared. I always let him know where I was, I was tidy, I cooked sometimes. I pleased him in bed, and never complained when he didn’t want to reciprocate with his mouth. It wasn’t enough though. Jared left me for the twink that made his smoothies at the gym. Can you believe that? I mean I understand the allure of a true twink and cockslut, of having some nearly hairless, lithe queer boy writhing under you, begging for you to fuck his pussy again… but Jared and I had been dating for nearly two years when he left me. That’s a boy you take home from the club, not someone you throw away a serious committed relationship for in a week. Plus, Jared always used to call me handsome. He loved my pecs. He said he liked rugged men. I just don’t understand what happened to my life. Maybe Jared really wanted a pretty houseboy or something, I don’t know.

I pace around the apartment, mournfully gazing at where Jared put his coffee mugs, and where he put his watch when he went to bed. Until yesterday, my hand-prints were still on the patio doors from when Jared last fucked me against them. It had been dark, and people could probably see us. I found it exhilarating. Now, I was ashamed and wished I’d scrubbed them away earlier.

I opened the apartment door and glanced out into the hallway. I left the door open a crack to help air out the stuffy living room. I felt lost, a bit stuck in time. I shuffled into the bedroom and climbed onto the bed. I used to get into this submissive position – back arched, arms straight, ass out – like some obedient show puppy desperate to please his Master. I thought it was fun to greet your boyfriend like that, start the evening off with some frisky sex.

Now I just feel stupid. There is no one to show of and feel sexy for. I  might as well be a puppy dropped off at the pound-

There’s the sound of knuckles rapping at the door. “Um, excuse me?” says a melodic velvety voice.

I whip my head around. My potential new roommate is standing in the open door-frame to my apartment. From that vantage point, Grey can see straight through the living room and right into my bedroom. Right at my ass. I flush with embarrassment and scramble off the bed; I practically run to the living room to greet him.
“You must be Grey,” I mumble, wanting to melt into the floor. I offer a hand. We shake.
Grey lifts the corners of his lips and raises an eyebrow at me with lots of David-Bowie-esque charm. “Pleasure’s all mine. Sorry if I was erm, interrupting, but the door was open.”
I stammer out a response. “No, it’s quite alright, I was just – er, would you like to a tour of the apartment?”
“Yes please. Are you alright?” Grey presses, putting a hand on my arm. I realize he’s wearing slim, leather gloves. What style!
I sigh. “I’m alright. I just…I don’t want to be a downer, but my boyfriend of two years just left me. This is hard, to be renting out the guest room.”
To my astonishment, Grey hugs me. “I am so sorry honey. That is never fun, or fair.”
I can’t believe how badly I need this hug right now. I crush him back, and I am mortified to feel more tears coming on.
“Aww oh dear, I’ve upset you. Come now, show me to the kitchen, I’ll make you some tea. You poor cub, I think you need someone to talk to.”
I nod miserably and show him the way. 

After Grey makes me a cup of sencha, the dam bursts. I end up completely gushing and bitching, ranting like a lunatic, going through tissues like a madman. Grey listens, always attentive, never bored, never once glancing at his phone. He pats my arm and soothes me, never accusing, always asking the right questions.

By the time I stop blubbering the teapot is empty. I take pause and sigh. “I’m sorry. This must be insufferable for you. You probably can’t wait to leave,” I snort.
“No…actually,” Grey says slowly. “I’d like to rent the apartment.”
“…What? Really? You’ve barely seen in it.”
Grey runs his finger over the circular rim of the cup. “I saw the kitchen, and the living room. And I had a nice view into the bedroom.”
I blush at his innuendo..
“This is all exactly what I am looking for, in my price range, and in a neighborhood a like. I’m a particular man. I want particular things.”
“Things?”
“Things,” Grey says with a knowing smile. His eyes linger on my chest for a moment, before flickering up to me. I am a bit mesmerized by his charm.
“…I’ll um, I’ll get the paperwork then.” I stand up, but when I notice just how green his eyes are, I end up tripping over my own feet on the way to my desk.

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Text is fictional. Originally posted by the real person on Tumblr. This story is not meant to assume his personality or sexuality.

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My phone rings just around noon. I push around the papers I was organizing until I find my phone. I glance at the number before answering it.

“Hello Sir, what’s going on?” I ask. Atlas doesn’t call me in the middle of the day often. Once was for because he left his lunch here, the other was because he was drunk at a holiday party and wanted to hear my voice.
“Hey boy,” Atlas said, “You know how I was feeling kinda low energy this morning?”
“Yes? Are you alright?”
“It’s gotten worse. I feel like total shit. Everything aches, I can’t stop sneezing. Jorge is sending me home before I – quote end quote – contaminate the entire office.”
“That sounds like Jorge,” I snort. “My poor baby, you need me to come get you?”
“No, I can drive…I’m just gonna pass out when I get – AACHOO!”
“Oh dear. Alright. See you soon. Wait did you eat?”
“No…don’t feel much like eating.”
“Good to know. See you soon. Drive safely.”
“Bye.”

I hang up and glance at the piles of his paperwork I was organizing and filing. New year, new folders. “Well, I guess this will have to wait.” Secretly, I am delighted though because as his houseboy, I live for moments like these.

I dust myself off and make a detour to turn on the space heater in the bedroom before I hurry into the kitchen. My man is going to be hungry, and that cold food I packed in his lunch won’t do. I take a tupperware container of broth out of the freezer and dump it into a big pot on the stove. I turn it on low, and let it defrost while I chop up carrots and the last potato. I add a few more things from cans. By the time Atlas arrives home, I’m just putting the lid on the vegetable and rice soup to simmer.

Sharky detects Atlas’s presence before I do. I rush to the door where the dog is already waiting for his Master to come home.  Atlas gives our stocky Sharky a pat on his rump, and gives me a “hey boy”. He looks like he’s going to fall over.
“Oh jesus, Atlas, look at you. You’re all flushed.” I press a hand to his head. “You’re burning up. Let’s get you into bed.”

I lead Atlas upstairs to the bedroom. I remove his tie, unbutton his shirt, and have him sit on the bed so I can remove his pants.
“I love that you undress me,” he mutters.
I smile. “I enjoy it too.” I fold his work clothes and set them on a chair to be put away later. “Now let’s get you into paja…” I hear rustling noises and turn around. He’s already curled up in the bed sheets. “No, this ish go..goo… ACHOO! ..uughh..”
I toss him the tissue box. Atlas blows his nose.

Sharky sniffs at Atlas’s hand and settles into his cushion next to the bed. He must detect his Master is sick, because normally all Sharky wants to do when Atlas comes home is play.
“My poor baby. You want something to eat?”
“Yeah, I’m hungry all of a sudden.”

I bring him a mug of soup and a glass of cool water. He eats about half of it between sneezes before his eyelids start to drop. “Is it ok if I don’t finish this? I need a nap like nobody’s business.”
“Sure, not a problem. You rest.” I tuck him into bed and kiss his temple. “I’m going to run to the pharmacy, to get you some medicine, some more tissues, and some Powerade or something.”
“K,” he says, snuggling his pillow. I sit on the edge of the bed and stroke his hair. He yawns. “You would make such a good boyfriend,” he slurs before falling asleep.

I sit there, holding the half empty mug, and stare at him. Did he really just say that? Color rises to my cheeks. I’ve heard about this from other houseboys, how easy it is for your man to fall in love with you. I never pictured Atlas as the type. He was too serious, too professional. Everything with him was divided with lines, and nothing contaminated other sections. Work was never mixed with play. His sports socks were always in a different pile than the dress ones. I had accepted I would always be “the help” and nothing more to him.

However, the way Atlas looked at me had begun to change over the last couple months. It was a softer look, as if he was really seeing me and not just acknowledging me. The touches lingered a bit more. On New Years, he kissed me – and it wasn’t a kiss of ownership, or possession, but one of passion and intimacy. It made my cock stir a little, I won’t lie.

I watch Atlas sleep and wonder if he was even aware he said that to me. I smile and stand up, pondering this. I wouldn’t mind being his boyfriend. I enjoy taking care of him, organizing his house, making his meals. He’s handsome, and had a nice sense of humor. He has a nice butt. Besides, someone had to take care of him when he was sick like this. Sharky couldn’t do it. Atlas tosses and turns. I tuck him back in, and turn the space heater down a little. “Poor baby.”

I just hope I dont get sick. The role reversal would break Atlas’s brain. I make a mental note to get facemasks and antibacterial gel on my shopping trip. I would take care of him as if he were a boyfriend. Love is good as medicine isn’t it? I make another note to add chocolate on my list.

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Text is fictional. Edited for tense issues.

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I lean against him, one hand around his waist. He’s mostly quiet now, except for his sniffles punctuating the silence of our living room. The warm Florida sunlight streaming in through the windows is making me sleepy. I close my eyes, doing my best to emanate calmness and serenity. It took me nearly twenty minutes to get him to calm down, my boyfriend was that upset.

I was just congratulating myself on my ability to recover from such a turn of events when Quint’s thin facade crumbled again. I felt his shoulders tremble first. I opened my eyes and turned my head slightly him, just enough time to see his bottom lip tremble but not enough time to react.
“My gecko,” he wailed through a tight throat, and fresh tears began to fall. “My poor little Shovel.” He burst into fresh sobs.
“Oookay come here,” I cooed, using my hand on his waist to guide him sideways and into my arms. Quint crawled into my embrace and set to work on soaking my shirt again. I held him tight, wishing I could do something – anything – to lessen his pain.

The shock of coming back from a trip to the post office to find the little guy deceased had sunk in now, and Quint was now ruminating in his grief. I kissed his temple and rocked him. “Oh my poor baby.”
“I already miss him so much,” Quint babbled. “I am never gonna see his smiling face when I come to see him again. I’m never going to feed him another mealworm again, or watch him climb up the glass like Spiderman… he was just such a bro. Watching TV is never going to be same without him. He loved hockey.”
I try not to laugh. It’s not the right time. “Aww honey. Shovel had an excellent life with you. You said he was old wasn’t it?”
Quint nodded as he blew his nose with a tissue he pulled from the box to his side. “He was old for a leopard gecko. He was 17. I had him since I was 11. He was my birthday gift for getting straight As in school. I spent more of half my life with with-” At the end of that sentence, Quint’s voice goes up into a falsetto and clings to me hard, still crying. Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.
“There, there,” I say, knowing my words won’t do a thing.
“I had gotten him some new stuff for his terrarium for Christmas. What do I do with it now?”
“You can donate it to a reptile rescue, so some other lizard will get a nice life in Shovel’s name.”
I can’t tell if that upset Quint or made him happier, but the waterworks are in full gush mode right now. I hug him until I’m worried his ribs are going to break. My heart hurts for my boyfriend and I feel a little helpless that I can’t make this suck less.

Quint sniffles. “Two days before Christmas…why…”
“He just decided it was time,” I explain. “Shovel was very lucky to have you. I don’t want you blaming yourself now. He knew your schedule well. I think he passed when you were out at the post office because he couldn’t do it while you were around. Shovel knew how much you loved him.”
“Y-you think so?”
“Yes,” I say, with a nod. “He was an old gecko. He just took a nap and went. I’d say that’s the best you could have hoped for right? No pain, no lingering illness…”
“I loved that gecko.” Quint pauses for a loud hiccup. “I knew this was coming one day. I just thought there would be a sign…”
“Being 17 was a sign, love.” I insist.
“Still. I wanted more time,” Quint whines. He still hasn’t let go of me.
“I know, baby, but that wouldn’t be fair to Shovel. Shovel couldn’t give you more than that. He gave you all he could.”
Quint is quiet for a long moment, thinking about his beloved pet. “You are such a wonderful boyfriend, Marcus,” he says, surprising me. “I am blubbering like an idiot and crying all over you and you’re just putting up with me.”
“It’s part of loving you,” I say. “Being in a relationship means that you don’t just get the fun times and good sex-”
“Yeah the sex is pretty damn good,” admits Quint.
I chuff through my nose. “It is. But it also means being there when you need someone to get you through hard times. Shovel was part of our family. I’m not a total dick. I will put black bunting on his terrarium in mourning, if you want, and we can have a lovely funeral for the little guy.”
“Oh, I’d like that! I’d like that a lot.” Quint kisses me on the lips, then rests his head on my shoulder. “You are getting so many good boyfriend points right now.”
I smile. “Does that mean I’m getting extra Christmas presents?”
“Oh, it definitely does. And I’ll even let you be the little spoon in bed when we sleep.”
“Oh ho, I am a good boy on Santa’s list this year huh?”
Quint nods once more. “Uh-huh. Very good. God, I love you, Marcus.”
“I love you too, Quint. Why don’t we get you something cool to drink and you can wash your face?”
“Oh vodka. I need vodka.”
I laugh. “11 am vodka it is. A drink in Shovel’s memory?”
“To Shovel,” Quint agrees, all red-eyed and drained of energy.

I pat my lover on the shoulder, help him get up, and walk him to the kitchen. Again, I applaud myself for how well I handled the situation. I had been dangerously close to thinking Quint might be “the one”, but there were a few last tests to be done before I could make such a declaration. I was pretty sure we passed this one. There were a few more tests left, like talking about having children, and then I would know for sure if Quint could be mine for good. I was looking forward to them, because I was confident everything would work in our favor. I was confident in our love, because nothing could stop me from feeling the way I did about Quint – on good days, or bad ones.

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Text is fictional.

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“I can’t sleep,” he said, messing with his toes. “I dozed off but I had this bad dream and now I can’t get back to sleep.”
I exhaled through my nose and sit down on the edge of the bed. I awoke due to his cries, which echoed through-out the entire house.
“I’m really sorry to disappoint you,” he added in that soft, delicate tone of his, sweet as treacle and fragile as the skin on top of cocoa.
“It’s quite alright, Caleb. I expected there to be a period of adjustment.”
He looked down and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t quite believe me. After a moment, he spoke again. “Everything is different here. The bed is higher, the night sounds are strange, the sheets smell different.” He sniffed. “I miss home.”
“Oh sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you homesick?”
“Yes,” he replied, big crocodile tears sliding down his pale cheeks. “I want to sleep in my old room again. I’m so far from home!”
“Caleb…” I scooted across the bed and opened my arms. He crawled to me, sitting half in my lap, legs all over the bed. I enfolded him in my arms as he cries into my bathrobe. I rocked him, soothing him.

“I know it’s scary. But you have to be brave.”
“I don’t want to be brave!”
“I’m sure in the next couple of days you will learn a lot about my house, you’ll adjust, and discover Yellow Ridge is not a terrible place to live and I’m not a terrible person to live with.”
He sniffled again. “I’m not going to be a good husband to anyone.”
“Oh that’s not true, that’s not true. Shhh… relax. Breathe now.”

I continued to rock him, feeling more that I was rocking a little boy than the young man who was betrothed to me. It was, on paper, a good match. My family blood line is one of the upper seven or so distinct names, a historical name of wide influence in society and business. Caleb was from a lesser family line. Heterosexual marriage between blood lines is not encouraged amongst our people due to blood mixing. The only way for a family to gain a higher standing is to be lucky enough to have a gay son or daughter to offer to an upper family for their own homosexual son or daughter to marry. From the perspective of Caleb’s parents, he was a golden child. They were eager to abide by even the most conservative traditions. They had insisted Caleb be sent here to be my houseboy until the wedding, when he turned 18.

Even calling it a wedding was a broad term – it was more of a political ceremony. I had heard about wedded couples that each kept their own lovers; I however was a traditionalist, and hoped my bride and I would be true to each-other and monogamous.

I began to suspect that Caleb wasn’t going to be ready at 18 though. His parents had mollycoddled him and babied him. Freshly 16, he was still very much a sheltered child. I glanced down at the bundle in my arms. It was difficult to imagine that in two years, I was expected to consummate that marriage. Our five year difference suddenly felt wide as a chasm. His parents had likely taught him nothing about sex. I wondered if Caleb ever played with himself at all before his chastity device was affixed. He was still probably adjusting to that too. I pondered if it would be better to have it removed and let him explore.

More than anything, I felt pity for my bride. Thrust into a strange world, into strange arms, at a time when his body and its hormones were transforming in the most awkward ways. I also felt a bit of anger and disgust that the temple elders had clearly not sensed Caleb was a vulnerable creature – if I had been a man of lesser morals, I could have violated Caleb terribly. I made a note to call the Temple Counsel in the morning to file a complaint.

I would not send him back though. It would not benefit Caleb to go back into the womb at his age. As he got older, this behavior would be more difficult to correct. He was going to be a man soon. There were going to be expectations of him. I hoped keeping house and receiving home schooled lessons would keep his mind occupied. I kissed the top of his head and tried to remove Caleb but he’d worked his fingers into my bathrobe.

“Are you going to send me back?” he whispered.
I wondered if the boy could read minds. “No,” I said firmly, “You need to fledge from the nest. Every duckling and songbird falls a little when learning to fly. You’ll get used to things. You’ll find happiness in your work. Once you turn old enough, I will teach you the most wondrous pleasure your body is capable of. Are you feeling pain in your device?”
I felt the heat of his cheeks through my clothes. “No,” he says. “It’s snug, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Ok, let me know if it does.”
He nodded.
“Will you try to sleep now?”
Caleb eyed the bed warily. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
I thought. “Just this time, duckling”
He seemed satisfied with that. I cleaned his face, made him blow his nose, and have a sip of water. I then tucked him in lovingly and then spooned up next to him, me on top of the covers. Caleb had exhausted himself and was asleep within minutes. I lingered a moment, watching his eyes move under his eyelids, marveling at how long his lashes were. His face still possessed some of its babyfat, especially in the cheeks. He was going to be stunning all grown up.

I just had to make sure he would grow up. I was sure once he got a taste of his new found freedom he would thrive. Tomorrow would be a most interesting day.
“Good night, duckling,” I murmured, as I turned off the light and went back to my room.

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Text is fictional. This is model Graeme Metz photographed by Cecilie Harris for Boys by Girls magazine issue 6, titled “The Truth About Boys”. The T-Shirt by American Apparel and Underwear by Calvin Klein. This caption is not a projection or assumption of Graeme’s personality or sexuality.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

My frat brother woke me up at two in the morning.

“Max, wake up! Wake up. Come on, it’s an emergency.”
I flailed. “Wh- what? What’s going on?”
“You need to come downstairs right now. It’s your friend, Gordy.”
“Gordy…?” I asked. “What is he doing here?” He lives two hours away.“
"Oh you’ll see.” I squinted in the light coming in from the hallway. Steve was pale as a sheet.
“Shit, what happened?” I asked, throwing off the sheets. I was glad I decided to wear boxers to bed that night.
“You’re gonna puke,” was all Steve said. I bolted down the hallway and ran down the stairs. When I saw Gordy standing in the entrance way, I gasped. He was covered in blood; one eye was starting to swell shut and his nose was crooked.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Gordy…Gordy what happened sweetheart?”
When Gordy saw me, he began to cry. “Max!”
“Shit.” I walked up to him and embraced him a solid hug, letting him sob on me, not caring about his blood getting on me.  Steve was hanging back on the stairs, with a couple other bros who were curious about the fuss.
“Gordy who did this to you?” I asked through clenched teeth. I felt rage and bile rise in my throat.
His voice kept hitching from his fit and it was hard for him to talk clearly. “My – my- my dad, he be-be-eat me up after catching me kissing another guy.”
“Oh Gordy,” I sighed, rocking him. Gordy had been out to me for years. I’d always been somewhat worried how his father would take it when he found out, and I was furious that my premonition was right. I was seeing spots in front of my eyes from how angry I was.
“Is the other boy alright?”
“Yes.”
Did you drive all the way here…?” I asked.
“Yes,” he hiccuped. “I stole my dad’s car. Mine died a while ago.”
“Good god. Ok, let’s get you to the hospital, Gordy.”
“No,” he whimpered.
“You’re hurt and…jesus, I think your finger is jammed or broken or something.”
Gordy glanced at it, then looked up at me. “No, I want to go to sleep with you. Don’t leave me alone please.”
“Shh shh. I’m not,” I whispered. “We’re going to the hospital, then you can come back here with me.”
Steve piped up. “It’s totally cool if he stays here.”
“Thanks man.”

I got my keys and my wallet and my flip flops. Steve gave me his shirt. I walked Gordy to his dad’s car and put him in the passenger seat. There was blood all over the place, but I didn’t even care.

The emergency staff were horrified to hear what happened. They called the police and we filed a report. I mentioned how the car was “borrowed” and we’d be returning it in the morning so we could get Gordy’s things from the house. I asked the police officer not to his arrest his father until that was settled, and the Detective graciously said she’d work with us. The doctors set Gordy’s nose, braced his finger, and cleaned up the blood. We slept together in bed that night, him pressed against me, my arms around his trembling form. It took a while for the white anger to fade enough so I could sleep.

The next day, after breakfast, we drove back to Fishers to return the car. Steve drove my truck down behind us, it’s bed full of empty boxes we scrounged up under a tarp. The plan was for us to all carpool back. Gordy was quiet most of the trip. His bruises had darkened over night and he looked terrible. I held his hand when he seemed to need it most. Gordy and I had grown up together, best friends. He was a year younger than I was. I went off to university and he stayed local to earn money as his family was not well off. I hadn’t expected for us to see each-other again like this though, and I was not happy.

When we pulled up to his father’s house. I told Gordy to wait in the car. I waited until Steve pulled up, then I got out and walked over to tell him the same thing. I then went into the trunk and got the shotgun out of the back.

Steve saw it first, and yelled at me to put it away, but I told him to sit his ass down. Gordy was staring at me with wide eyes from his dad’s car.

I knocked politely on the door, and waited until his father answered.
“Oh it’s you, you faggot piece of shit that corrupted my son. What do you want with that? Gonna beat me up with it? I bet you don’t even know what to do with it. Here’s a hint. You don’t stick your dick in the hole.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I cocked the trigger and shot him in the leg. Behind me, Steve screamed. Gordy’s father collapsed to the floor, baying like a wounded dog. The bullet had lodged right above his kneecap. I kicked him aside, then turned around. “Alright, Steve, bring the boxes in. Get Gordy. Pack his stuff and any photo albums he wants to keep.”

Gordy got out of the car and threw up. He looked better afterwards. I dragged his father in to the living room and sat there with my gun trained on him while Steve and Gordy wordlessly packed up his belongings. His father was still making a terrible amount of noises, crying and cussing at me. Adrenaline and hatred suppressed any guilt or fear I felt. No one hurt my Gordy. Absolutely not, and especially not for kissing a boy. Not on God’s green earth. I had to resist shooting him again, and settled to just telling him to “shut the fuck up, pussy”.

I waited patiently, singing folk songs under my breath as the boys packed. Boxes came down first, then full laundry baskets, followed by bags. Gordy rescued his favorite mug from the kitchen, and a picture of his deceased mother from the living room only mere feet from where his father had been rendered immobile. They raided the coat closet and the basement, and within an hour, Gordy’s presence had been erased from the house. I whistled happily as it all went along.

Steve called my name.
“Yeah?”
He drank from a water bottle he found in the fridge. “We’re ready.”
“That’s everything? Bathroom, closets, cabinets, etc?”
He nodded. “Gordy is fitting the last of it in the truck. It’s gonna be a tight fit. Good thing you got a truck. Boy has a lot of stuff.”
I chuckled. “Yeah I figured. Not a lot of furniture though right?”
“Nah, just a lamp he liked.”

“Alright. Bring me his dad’s car keys would ya?”
Steve did. He threw them to me, and I caught them with one hand. I looked down at Gordy’s father, who was staring at me with utter hatred from a fetal position. I threw the keys onto his ground. “Here’s your car back. Sorry it’s got some blood in it, but that’s your fault. Listen to me. You ever come near Gordy again, I will aim for your head. Got it?”
His father spit at me.
I cocked the gun and shot him in the ass. The howls began again. “You know, Mr. Miller, being gay really isn’t all that bad. Having a little soreness in the ass is actually pretty nice.” With that, I collected the shell casings and left the house.

Once back by my truck, I called the police department back home. “Detective Mitchell? This is Max Tucker. Yeah it’s about Gordy. You can arrest his father now, but you’re gonna have to do it from a hospital.” I then hung up and called 911. I didn’t stay on the line like they asked.

By the time the ambulance arrived, we were gone. Three of us, crammed into the cab of my truck, the empty shotgun in the back. No one said a word, but Gordy cried on me the whole way home. It was a long drive back to the university, and my entire body ached from the tension and adrenaline mixing with testosterone in my veins. I drank my water and kept silent too, thinking about my actions. I did not regret what I had done to his father. I vowed to never again let Gordy stray far by my side, and that was a vow I kept.

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Text is fictional. The model is Evan Peters. This story in no way intends to depict Evan Peters or make projections on his personality or sexuality.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

“Oh hey, there you are,” I say, climbing out of the window and up to him on the roof.
“Shit,” he mutters, immediately trying to hide his cigarette.
“No no, it’s ok. You can smoke.”
“I can? You hate when I smoke.”
“Just one,” I say, settling next to him. “You’re under a lot of stress, but I don’t want you hooked again.”
He takes a long drag and exhales. “Thanks.”
I sit next to him in silence for a few minutes.
“What am I going to do?” John asks forlornly, “I am totally fucked.”
“You’re not fucked,” I assured him.

“Yes I am! I totally am, and I deserve it all. I finally, finally got the courage to admit the reason my marriage wasn’t working was because I’m gay. I found a great man, a man I could love, and I had the audacity to think I might actually be happy. I thought Sharon would be happier too, but then…” he taps the ashes off the cigarette and inhales again. “She gets pregnant. From the time I meet her to the day I marry her, she goes on and on about how she hates kids, doesn’t want kids, detests motherhood, etc, etc…and now she’s like "oh I want to keep it.”
I don’t know what to say.
“And she did this on purpose.”
“Why on earth would you say that?”
John puffs out his cheeks. “Because her brother told me she suspected I was cheating. And so when I took the trash out, I dug that nasty condom out from the bottom of the trash bag – there was a hole in it.”

“Jesus christ, John,” I gasp.
“So now! Nooow. We have to raise a kid she doesn’t want, and that kid will be raised by parents that don’t love each-other. And I’m going to lose you.” His voice cracks.
I rub his back in soothing circles. “I am not going anywhere.”
“But…but why?” he sniffles. “I’ve been a horrible person. I don’t deserve you.”
“Because I love you,” I say, kissing his temple, “And you’re going through a very hard time and you’re all alone. You need someone for support. And honestly, I think you should leave her. Poking holes in condoms is psychotic. Children are not bartering tools. Once you tell her you’re breaking up with her, she’s going to realize she’s gonna deal with that kid all by herself and she will…will…” I trail off, realizing the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
John’s voice is very small. “I can’t let her abort it.”
“Then let’s do this. Wait until it’s too far along to abort, then tell her you’re breaking up with her. She’ll have the kid, she won’t want the kid, and we’ll raise it.”
John blinks at me. “What?? Us?”
“You always wanted kids didn’t you? You love kids, you get along with my niece fantastically.” I’m pleased to see him blush a little. “We’ll give her an exit.”
“But you haven’t even known me a year yet…”
“But we have our whole lives ahead of us John,” I reply. “And hey, I sort of gave up on the idea of being a dad when I found out I was gay. This can benefit all of us, if we play the cards right.”

John just looks straight ahead, trying to keep his emotions in check. I take the cigarette out of his fingers before it burns his skin and stub it out on the roof. He sniffles. “I’ve never felt so fucked, and so lucky at the same time. Ugh, I should save that condom, for evidence.”
“eew…but you’re right,” I chuckle. “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be ok.”
He leans against me and sighs. “It’s going to be alright.”
“Yes, it’s going to be alright.”
“Eli?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
I put an arm around him and snuggle him close. “I love you too.”

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Text is fictional.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I had gone to the dungeon as a last resort. Years of psychological damage from childhood and poor self esteem had left me fragmented and hollow, and therapy could not touch it. I wanted release. I wanted to break through. I wanted to crumple and die and be reborn on the other side.

I was terrified when they tied me to the A frame with ropes and cuffs and chains, spread eagle and naked for a handful of naked and leather-clad spectators. I wanted to use the safe word. It was on the tip of my tongue. Instead I used “yellow”, over and over and over again, until I was sure the man in the mask would frustrated with me and tell me to get out. He did not.

Instead, he listened. He went slow. He spanked me and whipped me until I screamed and my muscles shuddered after each strike. I saw nothing but stars. Over and over until I lost track of them all. I could hear the others murmuring but could not make out what they were saying. I could hear him heaving from the effort. Then, he said, “Good boy,"  and gave one final strike. At that moment, I felt myself come apart. I ejaculated all over the floor. That gross, ugly, dirty shadow of shame that had clung to me ripped away and left me fresh and new and exposed on the frame.

"Stop” crossed my lips as I burst into tears. It hurt to cry – my face ached, my throat hurt. It felt as if my body had sweated out all its liquid and was pulling water from deep inside of me. The masked man and his assistant immediately untied me. The masked man set aside the whip and brought me to the floor and wrapped me into his strong arms. I did not care about his scent, or that his biceps were damp from sweat. I clung to him like a buoy as if I were deep out in dark waters. He rocked me and shh’ed me. His assistant brought me water; I drank it so fast I got hiccups.

The masked man chuckled and soothed me through my hysteria, cleaning my nose and my eyes with a handkerchief.
“There there…it’s alright. Come down now. That was very intense for your first session. I was impressed by your stamina. Alright, breathe for me. Yes, that’s a good boy now.”
“Am – Am I really – good?” I stammered.
He blinked down at me. ‘Yes. You’re a good boy,“ he said, petting my hair.

At that moment, I fell in love with him. I didn’t know his name. I hadn’t seen his face. But I loved him. I curled up against his broad chest and just breathed. No one had ever called me a ‘good boy’ before. No one had ever told me they’d loved me and meant it. No one had held me like this in my life.

I heard a new voice at that moment and realized it was the voice of his assistant. "Master Beaumont, I must say, I think he’s yours.” I looked up at him through swollen eyes, but I did not understand the expression on his face or the sentence he just said. I didn’t care. I fell asleep.

I woke up in the nurse’s office in the dungeon, under a blanket. My back felt hot, but numb. They must have put something on it. I was on my side. I tried to sit up. The noise of the blanket gave me away and a man came into the room.
“You’re up,” he said, relieved.
When I heard his voice, I realized it was Master Beaumont. His face was like a charcoal sketch, angles and lines with a sweeping jaw and bright curious eyes. My love for him did not weaken.
“No – no don’t sit,” Master Beaumont instructed. “Your bottom is still quite tender.”
I reclined back down to the pillow. “Yes sir.”
“Good boy,” he said, almost on reflex.

I tried not to weep more. I was completely dry. He gave me more water with a straw in it and had me drink. I felt better.
Master Beaumont said down on a chair next to me. “Peter said to me – that he’s never seen a session like that before. When I was rocking you at the end, he also said you the same expression his dog had when he adopted her from the pound.”
I gazde up at him, smitten, although I didn’t know what to say exactly. “Keep me,” I said.
He let out a slow breath. I knew he wanted to say something, but instead he said nothing and just thought.

I live in his house now. I serve his needs. I serve his body. I care not for my clothing or the importance of a career or some resemblance of identity. All I seek is for him to seek me. Even an offer of his warm hand stretching forward to cup my cheek makes me melt away. I love these simple moments, these delicate caresses when he shows me the same love I feel for him. And if he wants to make me the happiest person in the world, he will add “Good boy” for a job well done. It’s all I’ll need for the rest of my life.

I have broken through, and here, on this side, there is peace.

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Text is fictional. Still looking for source.