(to help bring about)
§
The fluorescent lights of your
hotel bathroom burn your eyes and make your head pound as you try to wash off
the dried blood above your lip. Bret
has just left. He hadn’t been
excessively rough this time, but, as always, he’d still managed to leave his
mark. You’d like to take a shower, but
are afraid that water beating against the fresh scratches on your back will
hurt too much. The freshly airbrushed
toilet seat to your left almost makes you
laugh. Your art is the only
outlet you have anymore. It’s the only
thing you feel you have any control over.
And tonight it just isn’t enough.
Exiting the bathroom, you throw on
a clean shirt, pick up your key, and leave the room. A drink will do you good, you think, and you remember walking
past a little hotel bar on the way to your room. It’s a little past one in the morning and you idly hope that it’s
still open. And that it isn’t overrun
with groupies trying to get a chance with Bret. If they only knew.
Arriving in the lobby, you see
that the bar is in fact open. And it
looks to be almost empty. You’re
grateful as you walk in and order a whiskey, straight up. The bartender hands you the drink and then
points over your shoulder. “Is that one
of your friends?”
You turn around and at first have
no idea what he’s referring to, but then you see the tangle of long legs and
arms curled up in a corner booth with several empty shot glasses and beer
bottles on the table in front. This is
not what you need right now. “Shit,”
you grumble, walking over towards the booth.
You slip in next to your friend and are relieved to see that he’s at
least breathing. “So much for sobriety,
huh, Bob?”
Bobby doesn’t look up. He mumbles something completely incoherent into
his knees, which are what his chin is currently resting on. You glance down at the table and decide that
he’s definitely had far too much to drink.
At least ten beer bottles and you don’t have the patience to count all
the shot glasses. You add your own
untouched glass to the collection. It’s
too bad, you think. He’d been doing so
well lately. Realizing that you aren’t
going to get the reprieve that you need, you put your arm around Bobby’s
shoulders and quite literally pull him out of the booth.
“You think you can walk?” you ask
him, fairly certain that he can’t. He
nods his head just slightly, his eyes falling shut. “Well, you’re gonna have to.
Because I’m not carrying your ass back upstairs.” You mostly drag him to the elevator. His attempts at aiding you don’t do much
more than hinder what you’re actually trying to accomplish. He leans heavily against the wall as the
elevator door closes.
“I’m really fucked up.”
You can’t help but chuckle at his
stating the obvious. “Did you want to
tell me why? Or do you have to save
that explanation for your sponsor?” You
probably shouldn’t have made that crack about all the time he’s spent in AA,
but you find it hard not to. Especially
while he’s in his current state.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he
slurs. You are surprised by his
forcefulness and anger. You’d thought
him too drunk to care. Part of you
wants to apologize, but for some reason you don’t. Maybe it’s the way that he’s looking at you through the dark
brown slits where his eyes usually are.
“No one fucking understands.” He
slides to the side a bit and you take a step across the cramped space to push
him back upright.
“Try me, Bobby.”
He attempts to push you away but
winds up leaning against you instead.
“You could have left me in the bar.
I would have been fine.”
“If by fine you mean dead, then
yes, you’re probably right. Forgive me
for not wanting my friend to die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Fuck you,” he grumbles, then the
small bell dings and tells you that you’ve arrived on the correct floor.
You once again pull Bobby along
behind you as you make your way to his room.
The thought crosses your mind that you could just as easily take him to
your own room, but something stops you.
An image of Bret is what does it.
You find that slightly irritating.
Why should Bret care if you’re with Bobby? You’re just taking care of him.
You’re doing what anyone would.
As soon as you’re inside the darkened room you let him go and he
stumbles over to the bed where he falls, face down, onto the mattress.
“I can’t believe how much I
fucking miss her.” You shake your head,
lock the door, and take a seat next to Bobby on his bed. He’s talking about his wife. Well, no, his very recently made
ex-wife. And you aren’t really
surprised. She’s all he’s talked about
lately. When he’s talked at all. The divorce had come as a surprise to him,
to say the very least. And the fact that
she had left him for someone Bobby knew well only made things worse. “I fucking loved her,” he continues. “How could she do this to me? I was faithful. I was a good husband. A
good dad.” His words are beginning to
slur together now and he quietly trails off.
For a long time you hear nothing but his breathing. And even that is shallow. You can’t help but be concerned.
“How long have you been
drinking?” Ten years ago you wouldn’t
have bothered to ask. But ten years ago
Bobby would have been holding his liquor much better than he was now. He’d been a drunk for a really long
time. But he’d never been a sloppy
drunk. He’d never been the kind of guy
that needed to be carried from place to place or babysat to make sure he didn’t
die in his sleep. Of course ten years
ago you would have been too high to notice it if he had needed your help.
Bobby shrugs. That is the only answer you’re going to
get. “I’m a good guy, right,
Rikki?” His voice is muffled as his
face is still buried in the scratchy hotel comforter. But you hear him.
“Of course you are.” And you mean that. Bobby is one of the most genuine people you have ever met. He’s one of your best friends. You have a hard time understanding why
anyone would pass up the opportunity to be with him. His divorce was nearly as shocking to you as it was to him. “She’s crazy for leaving you. But there are other women out there. You’ll find someone new.”
“New? New sucks. Comfortable is
good. We were comfortable.”
“Comfortable isn’t always…”
“What the fuck would you know
about it?” he interrupts, turning only his head so he can look your way. If he only knew about you and Bret. About how far from comfort that was, but how
it didn’t keep you from liking it any less.
You know you can’t talk to him about that, though, and so you just stay
silent. “She was so amazing,” he
continues, closing his eyes as if to picture the memories better. “You have no fucking idea.” He smiles then and buries his face back into
the mattress. “Fuck, she was good.”
You realize then what Bobby is
referring to. You’re not exactly
comfortable with it. You’ve known Bobby
for a long time. The two of you have
done a lot together. You’ve shared a
lot, including women. But this is
different. This is his wife, or
ex-wife, whatever. It doesn’t
matter. This isn’t something you want
to hear. But he doesn’t stop. The alcohol has destroyed what few
inhibitions he had in the first place.
“It’s never gonna be like that
again,” he says, his voice full of an emotion you can’t quite distinguish. All you know for sure is that it isn’t anger
anymore. You watch as he pushes himself
further into the bed. “There’s no one
like her. She was always so…damn…I
really need to get laid.”
You laugh now. You can’t help yourself. “I could go pick a groupie out of the crowd
outside if you’d like.”
Bobby sighs. “What’s the use? They won’t be able to do what she did, anyway.”
You have to admit that he’s piqued
your interest. “Okay, I’ll bite,” you
continue, laughing. “What could
Michelle do that was so amazing?”
He chuckles deeply,
languidly. It sounds surprisingly
erotic. You check the twisted feeling
in your stomach and swallow hard. His
head turns only a little. You can see
one of his bloodshot eyes. As
ridiculous as the position in which he’s laying looks, he seems very
serious. “Have you ever let anyone
dominate you?”
You almost choke on your own
tongue. Every natural instinct you know
is telling you to laugh. But you hold
it back. You have to hold it back.
“Don’t fucking look at me like
that,” he mumbles, shaking his head.
You hear the skin of his face scratch against the comforter beneath
him. “You don’t know how good it is
until you’ve tried it.” Your mind
screams that you have tried it. And
that he’s right, it is good. But you
keep silent. He sighs again. “Finding a woman that’s into that shit is
hard. Especially if you don’t want her
to be downright scary. I might as well
give up now.” He rolls over then and
you find his head suddenly in your lap.
He looks up at you and actually giggles, a sound you never thought you’d
hear from this bassist. His eyes roll
back in his head. “I really am fucked
up.”
“In more ways than one, it
seems.” Your voice is deeper than you
expect it to be. And the way the back
of his head is pressing into the crotch of your jeans is helping absolutely
nothing. You focus on Bret and what he
will do to you if he ever finds out what your current thoughts are. You take a deep breath. “You think you’ll be alright now? Are you good to stay alone?”
The expression on his face turns
very somber. He attempts to reach up
and touch your face but his hand falls back limply to his side. He doesn’t have the strength to hold it
up. “Don’t go.” He turns his face and you feel his nose
against the inside of your leg. “I’m so
lonely, Rikki.” He’s not making this
any easier on you, that’s for sure. You
clench your fist and dig your nails into the palm of your hand.
“Alright,” you relent, hoping that
Bret really was done with you for the evening.
“I’ll stay.”
Bobby smiles and snuggles further
into your leg. You twitch involuntarily
as you feel yourself begin to harden.
And then you have an idea.
You’ve always wondered what it would be like to be on the other end of a
situation like this. To be the one
giving the commands instead of taking them.
Dishing out the punishment instead of being subjected to it. What better time than the present? Bobby has already admitted that he likes
it. And he’s so drunk that he probably
won’t even remember it in the morning.
Bret will never have to know.
Bret, you think. For once you
can play Bret’s role. You can see what
it’s like to be him. You’re sure it
must be amazing.
You tell yourself not to be so
hesitant as you bring your hand to his head and run your fingers through his
short hair. Hesitance won’t work. That’s not how this game is played. Smiling and with his eyes still closed,
Bobby leans into your touch. You make
your move. Your fingers tighten in his
hair and pull slightly. His neck arches
and he opens his eyes. You can see his
confusion through his drunkenness. But
there is something else there in his dark gaze. Something that makes you smile.
Fear.
“Rikki…”
“Don’t,” you interrupt, pulling
harder now. You force him upright and
bring his face close to yours. “Have
you ever been fucked, Bobby? By a man?”
His eyes grow wide and you think
he’s instantly sobered up a bit. But he
says nothing.
“Answer me,” you growl.
Bobby inhales, his breathing
shaky. “N…no,” he tells you. You laugh.
So this is what it feels
like? This emotion deep down inside of
you that the person in front of you is about to be completely yours. This is how Bret feels. At least you hope it is. Because this is so damn satisfying it makes
you hard. And you want to be able to
satisfy Bret like this. You know how
Bobby feels, too. Scared. Excited.
Ready. You can see it all there
on his face. You’ve felt it before.
“I’m going to fuck you,” you
whisper breathily into his ear, gnashing your teeth for good measure. You actually hear him swallow. “And you’re going to like it.”
“Rikki,” he says again. “You don’t have to do…”
“Shut up,” you hiss, slapping him
quickly on the cheek. It’s enough to
stun him into silence but not enough to leave a mark. Just perfect. “I didn’t
ask you a question. That means you
don’t need to speak.” You let go of him
completely and push away from him on the bed.
“Take off your clothes,” you say, rather indifferent. You aren’t really that emotionless. This is turning you on immensely. But you can’t let him see it. Bret never lets on to you. And you have to follow Bret’s lead on
this. You wouldn’t have the slightest
clue what you were doing otherwise.
You’ve never been in this position before.
You watch as Bobby pulls his shirt
over his head and lets it drop to the floor.
His stomach muscles clench as he stands up clumsily and undoes the
button on his jeans. You can see he is
having a hard time staying upright and realize that he really is more drunk
than you imagined. All the better for you. He might fight back if he weren’t. And that could get messy. With a great amount of effort he rids
himself of his shoes and then manages to slip out of his pants. As soon as he is able, he sits back down on
the bed.
“Now what can I do with you like
that?” you question sarcastically, trying to sound like Bret does when he belittles
you. This is more difficult than you
had imagined. It gives you a new
appreciation for your lover. “Get on
your knees.” Bobby looks at you
fearfully but does as you say. You
climb up behind him and put your hands on his shoulders, rubbing down roughly
across his back. You stop briefly at
the scar from his surgery. You lean
down and first lick, then kiss it. He
shudders beneath you. You do it
again. Your cock is straining painfully
against the fabric of your jeans so you reach down and let it out. Bobby gasps as he feels you brush against
him.
“Do you want that?”
Silence.
“Do you want that?” you ask again,
harsher this time.
Still only silence.
You place both of your hands on
his shoulders and dig deeply into the flesh, leaving little half-moons on his
pale skin. “Fucking answer me,
Bobby. Do you want that?”
“Yes,” he whimpers. And you can hear the shame in his
voice. He’s not saying it just because
he knows you want to hear it. He’s
saying it because it’s the truth. You
grow even harder.
Bret usually makes you suck him
off first and you think you should have Bobby do this. But in the back of your mind a little voice
is telling you that you won’t last if he does.
So you begin to stroke yourself instead. Slowly, but with enough pressure to produce the lubrication that
you know you will need. Bobby’s never
done this before. And as much as you
want to hurt him, you don’t. Just
thinking about the tight heat that is waiting for you makes you almost
shudder.
You bring your left hand up and
suck gently on your index finger, covering it in your own saliva. Then you place it against Bobby’s ass and
enter him swiftly. He pushes back
against you but you tell him to stop, to relax. You say you don’t want to hurt him but you will if you have
to. You continue pushing, past your
first knuckle and up to your second.
And then further. Bobby cries
out and buries his head in a pillow.
He’s so tight. Tighter than you
ever could have imagined. And you can’t
want to be inside of him. You pump your
finger a few more times until he stops clenching around you. Then you pull out. Only to enter him again with something harder, bigger, stronger.
“Fuck,” you grind out through
clenched teeth, your hands digging into his hips. This is so good. So
unbelievably good. And the fact that
Bobby is now whimpering beneath you makes it even better. You slide in slowly, inch by inch, until
there’s no place left for you to go.
And then you just sit there, reveling in the immense pleasure. Letting your mind drift to the idea of Bret
feeling this every time he is inside of you.
Your hips buck just slightly.
Bobby hisses.
You pull out now, almost all the
way, and then push forcefully back in.
You bite your lip to keep from telling him how amazing this feels. He’s not supposed to know that. It’s one of the rules. “Jesus Christ,” you hear him say and you
watch as his fingers curl around the comforter in what you hope is a mixture of
pleasure and pain. You know that it is
when he pushes back against you.
“Please.”
“Do you want more?” you ask as you
lean down and return to licking and kissing the scar from his incision. “Do you like this? Do you like being fucked, Bobby?
Do you like being my slave?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Shit…yes.”
He pushes against you again and you bite down on the flesh of his
back. Hard. You see blood. And then
you let your natural instincts take over.
You pummel into him over and over,
loving the sound of his skin slapping against your jean-clad thighs. Loving how it feels when he arches his back
to give you better access. Loving how
it looks when he dares to glance at you over his shoulder, almost begging you
for more. You don’t have much more to
give but you speed up your pace anyway.
Harder. Faster. Deeper.
You suddenly find yourself wanting this as badly as you’ve ever wanted
anything in your life. As badly as
you’ve ever wanted Bret. The thought
scares and enthralls you all at once.
Because you know you can have this.
You know that you can make Bobby yours and there will be nothing he can
do about it. And you know that he will
enjoy every second of the sweet torture you’ll be able to give.
You feel yourself nearing the edge
and do the one thing that Bret has rarely been kind enough to do. You reach underneath Bobby’s body and take
his cock firmly in your hand. He calls
out your name as you begin to pump him in time with your thrusts. “Come for me,” you tell him, nothing sweet
or caring about the tone of your voice.
“Do it. Now.” Only seconds later he is spilling all over
your hand and the bed below. And when
he spasms around you, you can’t hold back any longer. You empty yourself inside of him, a low, almost animal-like
groan, emanating from your throat.
As soon as you have finished you pull out of him and push him back down so he is laying face first on the bed. You arrange your cock back inside your jeans and zip them up. Bobby doesn’t venture to look over at you. “Tell no one,” you say plainly, erotic tension still running through every nerve of your body. “And if I ever catch you drinking again…” You don’t finish the sentence. Just leave the room, slamming the door behind you.