I don't remember falling asleep after that, but I must have, seeing as I suddenly jerk awake with my heart racing. It takes me a moment to calm down and regain my composure, and when I do, I only grow to feel disgusted with myself.

I’m cold and sticky, and my shirt is stiff with dried sweat, but John doesn’t seem to mind. His arms are still wrapped around my waist just as mine are around his, and I can feel his soft breath wafting over my collar bone. His messy post-intercourse hair tickles the bottom of my chin and hangs down into his face; it’s adorable. The sight of his peaceful expression makes me disregard my own revolting appearance for a minute to appreciate how perfectly we fit together.

We are perfect together.

You know, I never would have guessed he was a bit kinky. Oh, well, isn’t everyone? John’s just so... soft and basic like... like Jefferson’s vanilla ice cream, so it was definitely surprising.

I mean, don’t get me wrong; his unpredicted request didn’t stop me from getting off. I personally will go along with anything. Essentially, I had to, to do what I did. Who knew what I was getting into every night when I was back in that business? There were times that I just couldn’t continue after one client, having taken such a beating from his sadistic pleasures.

I don’t miss being a cum slut, and I never will. I don’t miss any of it, and I never will.

In general, though, I can’t deny it; I’m a bit disappointed. Sometimes being handled rough is fun; sometimes handling rough is fun, but I couldn’t do that to John. Sometimes I crave being tied up and fucked mercilessly, but John wouldn’t do that. And I think I’m okay with that. John’s perfect the way he is now, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Speaking of otherworldly perfection, I feel John shift below me, and I find myself staring into his steel-blue eyes. His dark brown hair obscures parts of his face and makes him look more delicate than he really is. His cute button nose sits so boop-able in the middle of his handsome face, and it takes everything within me to stop myself from belittling him like that.

“What time is it?” he asks raspily, and I don’t know if his missing voice is from his incessant moaning and howling earlier or from being asleep. Maybe it’s a combination of both.

I grin at him. “I could tell you, John Mark, that it is” —I reach to my bed stand and grab my pocket watch— “11:45.”

He smiles, and it’s all I need. I love it when he smiles.

I press my lips to his and close my eyes, savoring the kiss. I feel his tongue enter my mouth, and I surrender my dominance. Chills run over my skin as he slides his hand up my side, onto my back, and around to my chest. Then, he dips his hands into my shirt and pushes the fabric off my shoulder. I sit up for a second, breaking our oral fixation, to shed the last of clothing before laying back down beside him. I immediately capture his lips with mine again, and I feel his fingertips touch down on my bicep tenderly. He traces lines along my muscles and makes loops as he moves from one crevice to another. I realize that these are my days of wines and roses.

He disconnects our lips with an audible ‘smack’ and brushes our noses together, keeping eye contact all the while. I wish I could know what he is thinking about, but sometimes I don’t think I want to. I don’t think John’s mind is as lovely as I’d like to believe. I think he’s more than just batting eyelashes and smooth skin. I think his mind is like weeds, distasteful to some, but others may find immense beauty in the overrun gardens of Eden.

I do. I find the small white flowers of invasive species to be quite charming, especially when he’s the one wearing them. He’s always so curious too.

“Why are you so strong? I mean, I haven’t done anything farming-related for a couple of years now, but I should still have the upper-hand on you, city-boy,” he chuckles, looking at where he’s got his hands on me.

I tense up, and he notices, returning his attention to me.

“What? Something else in your past you’re not going to tell me?” he assumes, pushing away from me a bit, but I grab onto his waist and pull him into my chest again, bringing his warmth against me.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I—

I'm making sure he knows I trust him.

“I’ll tell you. Maybe I can’t disclose the entire thing, but I’ll tell you this: when I was sixteen, I was...” I trail off, my throat seizing up uncomfortably so that I have to spit the last word out of my stiff lips with all too much effort, “raped.”

Now it’s John’s turn to tense up. He stops tracing lines over my flesh and grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “What.”

“When I was sixteen, I was raped,” I repeat looking into his blue irises that had become glassy with tears.

“Tom... oh, God.”

“When I was sixteen, I was raped,” I say a third time, almost as if I was confirming it to myself. “So, to stop that from ever happening again, I started working out more so that I could fight back if someone ever attempted that again.”

John wraps his arms around me and squeezes me, burying his face into my neck. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he blubbers on.

But what could he do?

I stand against the wall, not too far from the bathroom’s entrance. It’s my spot. The other boys stand out on the street in the cold, but I managed to secure this spot.

The bar is the best place to conduct business. The place is crawling with long-married men who have had no choice but to deny themselves what they really want. Few ever actually talk about it, and thus they never have a chance to form a real relationship with someone. Then again, who needs real relationships when you have men like me?

I don’t exactly recall how I got into this. Maybe this started after one of my friends mentioned it, or maybe it happened after that one guy I’d met that “paid me for any inconveniences”. Though, I knew he was really paying me not to talk about what had just gone down in his bedroom. Maybe that was when I realized I could make easy money by selling my body.

Even so, it isn't that I just want money; I need it. My parents’ inheritance was supposed to be sent over, but it hasn’t come yet, leading me to believe they spent it all trying to get over here. I guess that’s a fair excuse though. Spending your fortune to try and illegally immigrate to another country to be with your child is a fair excuse. It just would be so much easier if they weren’t such aristocrates, but they’re no more than corrupt thieves stealing from the bourgeoisie.

So, here I stand, waiting for the next drunken bastard to stumble along looking for long-desired pleasure—waiting for the next time I can get paid. It’s profitable, and that’s the only reason I still do it. I get paid more than most too since my rates are significantly higher. It’s another plus of this spot; the wasted are incredibly easy to take advantage of. Not to mention, word on the street says that I’m willing to do anything, which is entirely true.

Soon enough, a man with a long, slender nose and straight black hair strolls right on over. He makes short eye-contact with me and taps my elbow as he passes, heading behind me into the single-use bathroom. I follow his path shortly after.

As soon as I enter the restroom, I am pushed against the wall. The taller man sticks his hand down the front of my pants and starts tugging on me, putting his other hand against my chest to keep me pinned to the wall. My hands grab onto his shoulders and try to push him off, but he’s stronger than me. No avail.

“Payment first,” I hiss still struggling to pry myself away from him.

I hear him chuckle lowly, “You really think I’m paying you, whore?”

Fuck.

Tears of frustration and fear rush to blur my vision, but I promise myself I won’t cry. I can’t cry because I need to fight.

I attempt to kick him, but he blocks my attack with his knee and moves between my legs, making it impossible to use them as defense. I start trying to push him away more frantically as he starts undoing his pants with one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on my sternum. It’s no use though. My small, adolescent body is pinned to the wall, and he’s so much stronger—so much more resistant.

The moment I realize that this fight is over, an even greater, more panicked terror washes over me. I can’t do anything but pointless flail my arms and wriggle against his hold in all hopes to somehow escape the inescapable. I no longer pay any attention to the waterfall of tears streaming down the sides of my cheeks, only adding to my meek bunny-like appearance. It’s the moment the dog corners the rabbit, and the rabbit can do nothing but shake and plead, but all is gone for the rabbit. No one is there to help; and the snarling hunger driving the dog will never submit to the little's cries.

His left hand pushes harder against my ribcage, and I cringe. My hands automatically grab onto his wrist to lessen the immense pressure, but there is nothing I can do. All I have left are prayers to God he won’t break my ribs—prayers to God he won’t kill me.

Oh, Lord, forgive me. Have mercy on me.

I hear the sound of the seams ripping as he yanks down my pants. Then, his hand is lifted from my sternum, for just a moment. It’s enough to let me breathe, and I’m too focused on that to fight. Because all I want to do is survive.

Please, my Father. Hear me.

Suddenly, I'm flipped around, and the hand previously on my chest makes its reappearance on the side of my head, crushing my skull into the wall. I have to strain to keep consciousness. My eyes dart around with difficulty, looking for a way to escape, and I’m not even surprised to find there isn’t one. I resort to swinging my arms out in an effort to hit him from behind, but as expected, I can’t. My arms are too short to even come close to reaching him. I open my mouth to scream instead, but he jabs me in the side, making me keel over uncontrollably.

“Think about screaming, you little slut, and what? They’ll come save you? You’re nothing more than a bitch,” he insults me. “You’re supposed to be used like this. You asked for it. I’m only giving you what you—”

I take the moment while he’s distracted and twist my head away. His grip falls from my face, and I think I might be successful for a second, but my victory is short-lived. He’s still got my legs pinned to the wall with his own, so when I try to move, I just stumble over anticlimactically. It doesn’t take but a second for him to reach down and latch his hand into my hair. He pulls me up from my knees and slams my crown back into the wall, eliciting a nauseating spinning inside my head. I can’t even see straight as I sob knowing that I’m completely defenseless to his advances.

“Now be a good kid and be quiet.”

~

He pulls his hand away from my skull, and I drop to the floor. He lets out a refreshed sigh and zips up his pants, but I just sit ragdoll on the floor, bleeding in places I shouldn’t be bleeding. I haven’t the will to move quite yet, and I haven’t the will to even pick my pants up from around my ankles. I think I might be crying, but I’m not really sure. There are no tears left to cry.

“Dirty whore,” he whispers, walking from the room.

Never again. Never again.

Never again, and that’s a promise I never broke.

After that day, I started hating myself. I hated my job. And I hated that fucking spot, so I never went back.

I did everything I could to avoid that situation again while I looked for other work opportunities. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to keep up that business for as long as I thought. I switched to selling opium and morphine very soon after, and it made me just about as much profit as before. Then, as if God was responding to unanswered prayers, only weeks after the attack, my uncle’s fortune fell into my hands, as the closest remaining member of the Fery’s, since he had no wife or children. This did evidently reveal that my parents had died, but that didn’t come as any surprise. They had probably been caught by the authorities and persecuted for their many crimes against the people as they should have been.

Of course, I still subjected myself to my previous endeavors when sales were low, and the week I met John, three years after the incident, sales were extremely low. But maybe after a month or two after my first night with John, I dropped everything. All the terrible things and shady underground business, I dropped it all. I dropped it because I knew that if John was to ever forgive me and be with me, I couldn’t be that person anymore. I needed to change and get away from all that, so I did. To this day, I have not relapsed into any of that shit aside from “collecting payment”.

That day in the market, I saw the face I never wanted to see again. Him. It’d been so long, and I had grown up since then. He didn’t recognize me, but I sure as hell recognized him. Okay, I may have beat the living fuck out of him then robbed the son of a bitch, but I feel it was justified.

Turns out he was a rich bastard too. The richest are always the most corrupt, aren’t they? This doesn’t exclude me, I guess.

Anyway, the sum of $536 I had found in his wallet was put to good use. It bought my love a brand-new coat that he looks dashing in, and the rest will be considered compensation for the trauma.

But John doesn’t need to know about any of that. John will never know, and that’s exactly how I’d like it. I love him with my heart and soul combined. For him, I would do anything. For him, I’ve done everything.