His Boys
TBGC
Series: Original
Author: Randi Shane (Pissed Off Eskimo)
State: Complete
Pairing: homosexual
Rating: X
Word Count:
Warning: kidnapping, rape, incest, drug use, noncon, torture, physical violence,
and foul language
Summary: Not everyone is what they seem.
PART SEVEN
Paul stomped his cigarette out and took the stairs two at a time. He hadn't been over to Richard's for a week and, despite his best efforts not to admit it to himself, he was worried about Mitch. He couldn't clearly remember the party, but Jessie had been there and that was never a good thing. When Richard had called him that morning and said he needed someone to look after the kid for the day, he'd readily agreed, relieved to have an excuse to indulge his concern. He'd go in and Mitch would be the same as always and nothing would be different and then he could just stop worrying.
Unlocking the door quietly, he slipped in and shut it behind him, locking it and keying the security code into the pad next to the door. The sounds of Buffy the Vampire Slayer filled the room and Paul smiled. At least, he smiled until he saw Mitch. The kid was laying on his side on the bed, blankets pulled up around him, staring blankly at the screen. He looked vaguely ill, kind of pale, and where as he was usually enthusiastic about seeing Paul, he didn't even appear to want to look at the door.
What the hell had happened in the last week? "Hey, Mitch."
Mitch looked at him for a moment and nodded slightly, before turning back to the television and taking the remote out from under the quilt, flicking it off to leave the room in deafening silence. Something was wrong. "You feeling okay?"
Mitch nodded again.
"You don’t look so good."
Mitch shrugged.
"Is something wrong?"
He shook his head.
"You going to talk to me?"
"Where've you been?"
His voice was oddly slurred, like something was obstructing his speech. Paul put down his bag and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at Mitch, who still refused to look up at him. "My agent thinks I haven't been seen out enough lately, so I was instructed to take a pretty girl on several, very public dates."
"Oh." Mitch looked at him out of the corner of his eye, "Did you have fun?"
Paul shrugged, "I guess. Claudia, that's the girl, she's nice, kind of bossy, but she has this amazing accent. Thing is, we don't really have anything in common." He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, "I suppose I'll have to find myself a new trainer."
"Trainer?"
Paul grinned at the show of curiosity. He always knew Mitch was feeling better when he started asking questions. "She's my personal trainer. Well, was my personal trainer. I fired her so we could date and I really doubt I'll be rehiring her. Richard was right, it's never a good idea to mix business and pleasure."
He saw Mitch cringe at the mention of his captor and Paul's chest tighten. "So, what have you been up to while I was away?"
Mitch sat half up and bit his lip for several second, thinking, before finally sticking his tongue out. Paul's throat closed as his eyes focused on the small metal bar sticking out of Mitch's tongue with little green balls on either end. Almost as quickly as he had stuck it out, Mitch drew the tongue back in, but Paul still couldn't make himself breathe. "Wha... Did you..."
The only problem was, there wasn't any question as to how it had happened and the thought made Paul ill. Mitch hadn't wanted anything that had happened in this room and Paul knew he hadn't wanted a piercing, either. So, that meant Richard had... "Tanner." He heard the defeat in his own voice as he said the name. Tanner worked in a tattoo parlor as a body piercer and he'd done things for Richard before, though never to one of his boys.
Paul put his head down on his knees when Mitch looked away, shame written in the way his eyes skittered to the side nervously. What was wrong with Richard. What was he thinking? Fifteen-years-old was too young to have a tongue ring. What the bloody hell was the kid supposed to say to his parents when he got home? 'Hey, mum, sorry I was missing for three months, but look what I've got?!' God, but this was getting out of hand.
He looked sideways at Mitch, taking in the boy's downcast face. Now that he really looked he could see faded bruises of Mitch's face that could have been made with finger. They'd held him down and shoved a needle in his tongue and he'd probably cried, because Paul imagined it hurt a great deal. He turned his head away again and closed his eyes against the image.
Less than two months left and the kid could go home, he'd be safe. He ignored the voice in his head that said, 'live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.' "You, um, you want to watch television?"
Mitch looked at him for a second and then shook his head. "Not really."
Paul studied the boy's face carefully, trying to suppress the sick feeling as he took in the deadened eyes. After only one month, the kid was so drastically different. Paul couldn't reconcile this morose, lifeless child with the one that he had seen in the club that night, laughing and smiling and being a normal, defiant teenager. It was even harder to come to terms with the fact that Paul had had a part in that, however unwilling it had been.
"I brought you a game." He unzipped his bag and pulled out a small case. "My brother was going through his old Playstation games and I thought you might like this."
Mitch took it with only slight hesitation and looked at the game curiously. He knew this one. This was Puzzlefighter, it was one of his favorites. He and Cynthia used to play it all the time when Frank wasn't hogging the television. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Paul was really trying to be nice to him and the thing was that Mitch wasn't mad at him for anything he'd done, it was what he hadn't done. So what if Paul had fucked him? He’d only done that because of the drugs and Paul hadn't so much as touched him inappropriately when he was sober. Hell, even high it took Richard and Tanner coaxing him. He wasn't even mad that Paul hadn't helped him, because he'd come to terms with the fact that Paul was under Richard's thumb, probably had been most of his life.
No, what he was mad about was that Paul had been gone for a week and hadn't bothered to really check up on him. Of all of Richard's friends, Mitch thought he kind of liked Paul. Paul was sweet and nice and he treated Mitch like a little brother, not a sex toy. Having Paul come over even just every other day was what was keeping Mitch sane, reminding him that he wasn't just an object for Richard to use and it hurt that when Mitch had needed that reminder the most, Paul had been out with some bint, showing her a 'good time.'
But then, who was he to get mad about that? Paul had a life outside of this little room and maybe it was more jealousy than real anger. Besides, regardless of what it was, there was no point dwelling on it. Paul was here, Paul wanted to spend time with him.
Paul looked at him sideways, studying his expression, "Do you like it? I could get something else, if you want."
Mitch found himself grinning, "I'll have you know I've kicked many an arse with this game."
"Is that a challenge? I'm no slouch with this thing, either."
Mitch felt his heart leap into his throat for a second at the cocky grin on Paul's face. It was... warming, natural. It made him feel like he was sitting in any other room with a normal friend, who was trying to make him feel better. "Bring it on."
*****
Paul heard Richard stumbling up the stairs before the door opened, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from his place on the bed. They had spent the whole day playing video games and talking. Mitch had even laughed on several occasions when Paul had told him stories about things Richard and him had done in school. At some point Mitch had laid down with his head in Paul's lap and fallen asleep and he had stayed there, mouth slightly open, hands fisted tightly in the blankets.
It seemed so wrong that someone so young should be put through so much.
Richard opened the door and Paul raised an eyebrow at his friend's disorderly appearance. His shirt was half untucked, his belt wasn't done up properly, and his hair was completely disheveled. "Peterson take you out again?"
Richard nodded and sat on the bed, putting his head on his knees. "Publicity. He wanted me to meet a director that's filming a movie he's trying to get me into and there was a party and I think I had sex with a woman in one of the closets."
"You think?"
"Yeah, I remember... really wide blue eyes, blonde hair, and... a uniform. Oh, bloody hell, I got drunk and high and slept with a cocktail waitress. Peterson is going to love that. Brilliant publicity stunt on my part."
Paul chuckled softly, still stroking Mitch's hair. "You'll work it out in the morning. You always do."
Richard leaned forward over Mitch and kissed Paul on the mouth. Under his hand, Paul felt Mitch's neck tense. For some odd reason, knowing that Mitch was watching, or at least consciously there, made Paul feel uneasy. He pulled away from the kiss and Richard grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him back into it. "Paul, I want to fuck you. I want to get the feel of that girl off me."
Paul somehow managed to pull himself away from his friend. "Richard, not now. In the morning, when you've sobered up... maybe then, but not right now."
Richard scowled, but threw himself backwards onto his bed, mumbling something unintelligible to himself. After several minutes, the mumbling died out and gave way to deep snores and Paul relaxed. "You can stop pretending now, he's asleep."
Slowly, Mitch raised himself up and looked at Paul with an unfathomable expression. Though he said nothing, Paul didn't need him to say anything, he knew exactly what Mitch was thinking and he didn't know the answer to that himself. Richard was an arse. Richard used him when he wanted to and ignored him the rest of the time. Richard was psychotic, but... Paul looked over at the sleeping actor and his chest ached. He loved Richard, had since they'd first met and there wasn't anything in the world that would ever change that.
Looking back at Mitch, he forced a smile on his face. "Let's get him to bed and then we'll go to sleep."
Mitch stood from the bed, stretching. "I'm going to take a shower." It didn't need to be said that he didn't want to touch Richard, and apparently, Paul understood that, because he didn't complain as Mitch walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He turned on the water and stood under the hot spray, letting it scald his skin. It was the only way he felt even remotely clean anymore, like maybe he could burn Richard off him.
What he didn't understand, however, was how Paul could like it. It had been obvious before and even tonight when they had kissed. Mitch had felt Paul's cock against his cheek, reacting to the feeling of Richard's lips. Could it really feel so different for Paul? Richard was still Richard. It was still the same man, so how could the sex be different from one person to the next? Or did Paul enjoy the pain?
Swallowing back the taste of bile in his throat, Mitch turned off the faucet and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his pink skin and sitting on the toilet lid numbly. There were people who enjoyed that sort of thing, like Tanner, but Paul was as far from Tanner as any one person was likely to get.
The bathroom door opened and Paul stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame expectantly. If Paul said anything, Mitch would lose his nerve, he just knew it. Looking up, he pinned Paul with a stare, "Do you like it when he fucks you?"
It sounded harsh, even to Mitch's ears and he saw Paul winch. "Um, well, yes, but..."
"How? Doesn't it hurt?"
Paul hadn’t really been expecting this. He'd thought it would be a matter of how could Paul like Richard, not how could Paul like sex. Although, if he really thought about it, it wasn't all that surprising. The kid had had a pretty horrendous experience where anal sex was concerned, but surely he'd messed around with other kids his age.
Rubbing the back of his neck nervously, Paul stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, trying to decide exactly how to go about this. "It hurts sometimes, I suppose, but never so bad that I can't handle it."
Mitch pulled his legs up, balancing his feet on the lid and wrapping the towel around him completely. "Why does it hurt so much when he does it to me? Is it because I'm smaller, because I don't have enough experience? Could you... how do you make it not hurt?"
Paul sat on the floor, mostly because his legs had started shaking. Why was this so embarrassing? He'd talked sex with enough people and it had never bothered him before and Mitch needed to know. He needed reassurance that when this was over he could have sex and it wouldn't always be like this. "It's, uh... it's not so much about size or experience, though that does helps. It's more about trust. I trust Richard, so when he... you know, I can relax and just let it happen. It's like..." God, what was it like? "Didn't you ever fool around with any of your friends, or anything?"
Mitch looked quickly down at the floor and Paul felt his stomach drop out from under him. Oh, please, no. "Mitch, how far had you gone before?" Please say blowjobs, or handjobs, or at least heavy petting.
"Last year me and a boy kind of made out, but it was only above the waist stuff and we kept our shirts on."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"Nothing else?"
Mitch looked up sharply, resentment apparent in his tight features and Paul gave up, sighing in resignation. By the time he was fifteen, Tanner was clambering to get into his pants and Richard and him had exchanged a few blowjobs, though they'd been awkward. He'd known since that first morning after that Mitch had been a virgin, but virgin and completely inexperienced were two very different things.
"Shite."
Mitch flinched and Paul held out his hands, palms up. "No! No, Mitch, I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at Richard. I'm mad at myself. I'm not going to hurt you."
When Richard had said that to him, Mitch had always tightened up, knowing that it wasn't true, knowing that Richard would indeed hurt him and in the worst ways possible, but when Paul said it, it sounded sincere. Paul was relieved to see Mitch relax some, if not entirely.
"Look, anal sex is about trust and it's about wanting it. If you don't want it, if you don't trust the person you're with, then no amount of experience is going to make it painless."
"I don't understand."
Paul shrugged, "You will, one day. You'll find someone that you really like and that you really want to have sex with and the possibility of it hurting a little really isn't going to seem that bad." He chuckled at Mitch's skeptical expression and pushed himself up. "Come on, let's get some sleep while we still can, Richard'll wake up in a few hours and then you'll be spending the whole day helping me keep his head over a trash can."
After several second, Mitch unwound himself from his perch and finished toweling off, taking the pyjama's that Paul offered him. He didn't think Paul was lying to him, he just doubted that the same principle would apply to him. He doubted that there would ever be a time when the memory of what Richard had done to him didn't overshadow any thoughts of pleasure, but Paul wasn't going to have all the answers for him. He'd have to wait until he got home and then he'd get his parents to take him to a shrink and maybe in a few years, like ten or twenty, he'd be able to have a normal relationship.
Paul slipping into the bed next to Richard and motioned for Mitch to lay down next to him at the edge. When he laid down, Paul didn't try to hold him or make unnecessary contact and Mitch tried to ignore the small part of his brain that was resentful of that.
*****
Cynthia imagined that when Mitch had stood out in this crowd, that it would have been obvious he didn't belong. Cynthia sat at the bar, looking out over the club, scanning the people who were on the dance floor. She tried to picture Mitch in a place like this, wearing those bondage pants and the little fishnet shirt that he'd bought with his Christmas money the year before, but she just couldn't see it. Mitch was too shy for this. He'd always ducked away when people gave him too much attention and this... she eyed the men as they ground against each other, practically having sex on the middle of the club - there was one particularly young looking boy who was pressed against an older man, the top of his g-string showing against his pale arse as it hung half out his trousers - this wasn't like Mitch at all.
Turning away from the dance floor, she saw another man stumbling out of the bathroom, a large yellow rubber ring on one finger. She'd seen rather a lot of those and she wasn't really sure what they were, but whatever it was, they were selling them, individually wrapped for two pounds each from a large jar on the bar. Of course, they were also selling condoms, as well, for fifty pence, not that anyone was bothering with those.
With a steely glare at the jar of condoms in front of her, she reached her hand in a pulled a few out, looking at them curiously. The wrappers were all different colors and apparently, so were the rubbers. They were also different flavors. Banana and peach and chocolate and...
"You won’t be needing those."
She looked up at the bartender, who was looking at her, one eyebrow raised. Blushing, but determined, she held them up and smiled at him. "And why not?"
His mouth twitched in a barely held back smile. "Well, let's start with this is a gay bar and you're a woman."
"I could be lesbian."
"Then you really wouldn't need a condom."
Damn, he had a point. Putting them down, she smirked at him. "You caught me, then. I'm a straight girl in a gay bar. Now what are you going to do about it?"
He laughed and put a glass down in front of her. "Buy you a drink. What'll you have?"
Oh, bless him, she really needed some alcohol to steel her nerves. "Strawberry daiquiri and make it strong."
"How about a Virgin Cola and I put in a cherry?"
She pulled the fake ID out of her back pocket and held it up defiantly, "I have ID."
He didn't even look at it. "So did that Mitchell Dearing kid and I nearly lost my job over that one. You want anything stronger, you'll have to do more than flash a card at me to prove your age."
At the mention of Mitch's name, she had to refrain from squealing like the over zealous school girl that she was. Forcing a sighing, she rolled her eyes and put the ID back in her bag. "I prefer Sprite."
He pulled out a can, popped the tab and poured it into the glass before throwing in a cherry. "A Sprite you shall have. Now, tell me your name."
Cynthia swirled the straw around the glass for a minute before answering, "Cyn."
"Your real name."
With a sarcastic smile, she sipped the drink. "For a Sprite you get Cyn, you want anything more, you'll have to buy me a real drink."
"Blackmail," the bartender said, as he pulled out a small bottle of Vodka and poured a sizeable portion into the Sprite, "will get you everywhere."
She grinned at him, stirring the drink with her straw. "I'm Cynthia Redding and you are," she squinted at the name tag, "Brenda?"
"It's Chris. I couldn’t find my name tag tonight, so I borrowed one."
"Too bad, Brenda kind of suits you." With a wink, she sipped the drink and immediately started coughing as the sharp tag of alcohol burned her throat. This was much stronger than the stuff her mother had made for her cocktail party last year.
"Not a big drinker, I see."
"Haven't had any in a long time, is all." It was the truth, mostly. "So, you mentioned Mitchell Dearing?"
"Yeah, I said I almost got fired over it. Why?"
"Let's say it turns me on." When she got a raised eyebrow, she reverted to the cover story she’d worked out before coming. Considering her age, and especially his reluctance to believe it, she didn't know whether he'd buy that she went to university, but it was better than nothing. "I'm a psych major. I want to go into the investigative field when I graduate, maybe do profiling or something. So, things like this really interest me, you know?"
Chris chuckled and leaned over the bar, setting an empty glass between them and lowering his voice. "It was me and Brad tending the bar that night. He had ID and I wasn't really sure about his age, but I couldn't find anything wrong with it, so I served him a few drinks. Brad gave him one too."
"What kind?" She couldn't stop herself from asking, but it fit her story anyway. There really was something about people in what they drank.
"A hurricane and a strawberry daiquiri, can't really say how many. You know, we'd seen him here once or twice before, but he never really drank anything and he'd certainly never gone on the dance floor."
"He went on the dance floor!?" The police reports had said that he was seen with people, but she didn't think that meant dancing. She glanced back at the floor and the men grinding against each other lewdly.
Chris chuckled, "Sure did. Got himself a hotty, too. Guy that comes in here once every few months, hits on the guys, but never really goes home with anyone. Mitchell was on the floor with them, they danced some and then he went back to their table, when I looked again the kid wasn't there and they were all talking like nothing was wrong, didn't even leave for another hour."
Cynthia bit her lip. It was like the police reports had said it. He'd been seen with them, but if they'd stayed after he left then he must have gone off alone. Where would he have gone, though? "What time was it when you noticed he was gone?"
"Chris, stop chatting up the dikes and get back to work!"
He cursed and looked at her apologetically. "Sorry about that, duty calls." He started to turn away, but stopped short and looked back at her pointedly. "He was on the dance floor at about twelve-thirty and by the time I noticed he wasn't at the table it was after one, maybe even one-thirty. I get off at three. If you're still here, I'll make sure you get home safe."
She felt herself blush, but nodded and went back to watched the men and boys around the club. It was only twelve, but she waited and sipped her spiked Sprite and ate her cherry. By three, she'd had two more glasses, none of which she had paid for and her head was feeling a little light. Chris told the manager that she was with him and the man let her stay, though he didn't really appear happy about it.
When they finally made to leave, her legs had some trouble supporting her and Chris had to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her up. "Come on, out to my car and I'll drive you home. Where do you live?"
She put her head on his shoulder and was overwhelmed with the smell of cologne. "You smell good." She put her nose in his shirt and he chuckled, sitting her in his car and pulled her skirt down over her thighs.
"Come on, Cyn, where do you live?"
"Cyn. Mitch used to call me that sometimes. He thought he was being funny." Her stomach rolled. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Chris bent her over the pavement, just outside of his car and she vomited, sprayed the parking lot with Vodka and pretzels. It tasted just as bad coming up as it had going down. Chris say her back up. "You still with me?"
She nodded. "I'm living with my dad near… near the Notting Hill Gate stop off."
He raised an eyebrow. "Pricey neighborhood."
"I'm a pricey girl." It would have sounded more convincing if she hadn't had to lean down to throw up again just then. Something was wrong, she was doing something she shouldn't be, but she was too dizzy and she couldn't clear her head enough to think. "Take me home." She put her head on her knees and felt herself slip into sleep.
*****
It was too bright and it was too warm and she felt like her head was full of heavy little stones that bounced around the delicate interior at the slightest noise. A toilet flushed and she reach to pull her pillow over her head, only the moment her hands closed around the soft velvety blanket next to her, she knew it wasn't her bed at all. She sat up and looked around the little bedroom in horror. There were dirty clothes on the floor, though thank god she still had hers on. The window was covered with a shabby blanket.
The door to the bedroom was open and she involuntarily grabbed the sheets, pulling them over herself. Chris was standing in the hall, a soft smile on his face. "Hey, you're awake. You kind of passed out in my car and I wasn't exactly sure where you lived, so I brought you home."
She looked around again and saw a grungy Depeche Mode poster on one of the walls, Erasure over the bed. "This is your place?"
Oh, god, she was only fifteen and she was in another man's apartment. What if he expected payment or something for having helped her? Chris nodded and set a glass of something bright yellow on the table next to her. "It'll help."
Slowly, she sipped it, instantly recognizing the taste of Lime Gatorade. "Thanks."
He smiled at her, "No problem. Look, I know that ID's fake, but I'd be willing to bet you're seventeen, so how about I take you home for today, you sleep off that hangover and then call me and I’ll take you on a date. I'm off Thursday." She hesitated and he raised a blond eyebrow, "You can question me all you want about your friend."
She started at his comment on Mitch having been her friend, but then had a very vague memory of sitting his car, the acrid taste of vomit in her mouth, saying that Mitch used to call her Cyn. "Fine. You take me home now and on Thursday you can take me out on a proper date. Like to the movies and out for dinner or something." It was the least she could do, considering it didn't appear that he'd done anything untoward to her unconscious person.
"That's settled then. There's a bathroom just past the door. Get yourself cleaned up some and I'll drive you home. Oh!" He went to his dresser and pulled out some clothes, throwing them on the bed next to her. Cynthia held them up, jogging shorts and a worn Puffin shirt. She almost considered turning them down, but her father would probably throw just as much of a fit if she came home dressed in a wrinkled miniskirt and tube top as he would if she showed up in night clothes. Scratch that, if she came home in what she was wearing now, he'd not only lock her in her room for all eternity, but he'd most likely hunt down whoever took her home and kill them.
"Thank you, that's very nice."
"You can give them back on Thursday."
She nodded and went to wash her face and get herself together. Everything was so surreal. Just the other night, she had been thinking to herself that the idea of Mitch having simply gone home with someone was absurd. He was a smart boy, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and making semi-rational decisions that didn't involve getting into a stranger's car, but wasn't that exactly what she had done and she always thought of herself as a smart, capable, rational girl?
Maybe it was as simple as Mitch had gone home with the wrong person. Maybe he had stepped out of the bar at one in the morning and a stranger with nice eyes had told him he'd get him home safe. Maybe he had been too drunk to think rationally, or maybe he had done drugs. She didn't think he would have, but more than half the men there had been hopped up on something, so maybe none of that was as farfetched as she'd thought it was and if that was the case... well, if that were true Mitch could have gone home with anyone and maybe she couldn't get any further than the police had.
Running a brush through the tangled mess of her hair, she looked at the stranger staring at her in the mirror. The stranger with bright blue hair pulled into tangled, messy pigtails, smeared eyeliner and red stained lips, wearing a tiny purple shirt that barely covered her breasts and a little skirt that she couldn't sit in without showing the tops of her black panties. Well, that was the last of that. Maybe she needed to fit in and maybe she didn't, but one thing was very clear: she had gotten lucky last night. It had been sheer luck that she had gone home with someone who hadn't taken advantage of her. She wasn't giving up, but she wasn't going to be stupid about this anymore.
Of course, that was assuming her father ever let her out of the house again.