The relentless sound of "Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve" echoed across the courtyard of the apartment complex that had become prison to Dillon McDonald. He stifled a loud groan as he tried, unsuccessfully to remove the large forearm draped across his chest. He looked at the dark tanned flesh marked by a large tattoo. His heart beat loud as he willed the sounds from outside the open window silent. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat as he watched the large man lying unconscious, snoring on the bed beside him and angrily grumbling in his sleep.
God, please don't let him wake up. I can't live another year like this…
The hypocrisy of the request made his stomach ache. What right did he have to ask God to do anything for him? He'd forsaken God long ago; Dillon had assumed that God had returned the favor. His current situation was of his own making and he had to figure out how to get out of it. Every inch of his body ached as his mind raced. How the hell am I going to get away from this man before he kills me? Even though he'd given his money, his body, and most of the spartan belongings he'd managed to amass over his twenty six years, he simply wanted a life. He needed a life.
The overwhelming torrents of shame shouted at him as he lay, naked, bruised, and in essence held hostage by the man whose property he'd become. He didn't feel like a man; he didn't even feel human. He was a plaything, a toy, to be used, and discarded when Sir was done with him.
Dillon knew better than to call Sir by his given name, the one time he'd done that, Sir'd broken his arm, and refused to allow Dillon medical treatment until he'd cleaned up the mess Sir had made while punishing his boy. It had taken hours for him to clean up the broken glass, water, and other household items that had been used to punish him. It was a mistake he hadn't repeated. The large, muscular man turned over, away from Dillon.
The young man felt a wave of panic. What do I do? Do I run? He'll kill me if I run. My brother would help me, wouldn't he?
Dillon hadn't spoken to his brother in two years. He'd cut off all contact after Sir had warned him that his brother was going to be a problem. Sir didn't like Cullen. He was as large as Sir and an Army Ranger. Dillon feared that if the two men came to blows, his brother could pay the price for his stupidity. He'd gotten himself into this mess; it was up to him to get out of it.
When he'd met the handsome Dom, he'd been instantly drawn to him. He was a charming man with a disarming smile and his brooding sexuality was palpable. Dillon had discovered sexual pleasures with Sir that he'd never thought possible. The Dom was skilled sexually, using Dillon's need to please against him. He'd push Dillon a little harder each time, pushing their sex life into more and more violent episodes. Eventually, Dillon had found himself so dependent on Sir that now he didn't even remember who he'd been before he met the man.
One thing had become clear to Dillon though, he was not in love with the man who lay next to him in a drug and alcohol induced haze.
He knew that his brother hated Alfonse. God, did I say that out loud? Fuck! If Sir heard me, he'll… His body shook violently; fear gripped him so deeply that he felt his throat closing.
Dillon sat motionless, staring, hoping that the sleeping man wouldn't rouse, that he hadn't actually used his name. Dillon looked down at the stained sheets below him. Stained with blood and sex from the "apology" he'd given his master. He felt warmth underneath him, damp warmth. He'd been so frightened that he'd lost control of his bladder. God help me. Help me, please, I can't live like this…
Dillon rose from the bed, still naked. He inched off the bed, making each move as if he were carrying a priceless piece of china. He finally made it off the bed without rousing Sir.
He breathed a hard sigh, thankful he'd made it that far. He needed to get out, somehow. He'd run away. His mind raced with fear, and an unfamiliar emotion. Dillon wondered was it -- hope? That was something he'd given up long ago. Hope was for good men. He was a disgrace.
He remembered the word his father had used -- abomination.
Maybe Cullen will forgive me. He carefully pulled the door partly closed behind him as he entered the hall bathroom, hopefully out of Sir's hearing.
The light snapped loudly as he flipped the switch. Panic gripped him as he stood, frozen, hoping he'd not awakened his master. After a minute had past, Dillon felt sure he'd avoided waking the unconscious man. He turned toward the mirror. The reflection he saw caused him to gasp audibly. He slapped his hand over his mouth, stifling the sound. He winced in pain as he realized that he'd grabbed his mouth where it had been cut open. He had an inch long gash along his eyebrow, as well the right eye was swollen nearly closed. His body a misshapen mass of bruises, cuts, blood, semen, and urine. The scent of Sir's urine on his body reminded him of the humiliation he'd endured before Sir would fuck him. It was his "apology" to his master for flirting with the cable repair man. Dillon had tried very hard not to meet the handsome man's eyes, but the kind man had made a point of shaking his hand, and thanking him for the iced tea. Stupid, Stupid!