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Homesick
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Subject: Homesick
I had a summer job in another city, about 5 hours' train ride from home. I'd
been there nearly a month, working peacefully and well, sharing a grubby
apartment with an extremely dull roommate. But I felt like I was moving
through oceans of strangers, next to the community but not part of it. That
had been partly deliberate. There is a certain privacy in being unrecognized
in a crowd, and a certain freedom in not caring what the crowd thinks of
you. I had *chosen* that privacy and that freedom, thinking I wanted them,
but it was already getting awfully lonely. Fortunately, Sasha was spending
the weekend with me.
Conveniently, my roommate (who would not have understood *at all*) was already
planning to be out of town. I got home from work, and my futile attempts at
tidying up were interrupted by Sasha's knock. I melted into his arms as soon
as he got the door closed behind him. He was clinging as hard to me, his
face buried in my shoulder for a long moment as the faint shudder in his body
faded. He finally eased his grip enough to let my heels touch the floor,
and we stopped trying to recapture 3 weeks in one hug.
I was eager, wanting to play. I showed him the tiny apartment, leading him
to the bedroom. His eyes gleamed when he saw the sturdy framework of the
bunk beds, and he ordered me to undress. I told him where we kept the
clothesline (the cabinet over the washing machine, where he also found
clothespins and a thick length of rubber tubing). Returning to the bedroom,
he snapped the rope between his hands and grinned at me. I suddenly felt
self-conscious. Looking down seemed like such an inadequate response to
that stare. I knelt.
"Don't you have a pair of scissors or something around here, Adri?" His voice
was cheerful, almost casual. I directed him to the pocketknife on my dresser.
He turned it in his hand, almost fondling it. Then he was behind me and the
blade hovered at the back of my neck. "Foolish child." He breathed in my
ear, and the very tip of the blade caressed my skin. I knew he wouldn't dare
cut me. "You should know me better than to trust me with knives." His voice
was *almost* teasing. "All I needed was something to cut the rope." I knew
he could have cut me, could have killed me. I didn't breathe. The blade
broke my skin. Sasha stopped, holding the flat of it against me. "Shall we
consider the point made?"
The point was made. One of several possible points. I trusted him to
hold me, having already trusted him with my life. When he put a clothespin
on my nipple, I was shocked by the unfamiliar pain, and knocked it away.
The rubber tubing came crashing down on my hand, leaving it red and numb
for a moment before the pain started. I whimpered, and apologized. Sasha
kissed the rising welt on my hand, then used it to pull me to my feet. He
tied my wrists together on the far side of the bedpost, leaving me standing
up and embracing the wood. The tubing struck me across the buttocks, and
I yelped. So *that's* what "thud" means. My body recoiled as much as the
rubber, which felt like a club, bruising deep. At the second stroke, I was
begging for mercy, even after a month of dreaming that Sasha might beat me
again. He held me briefly. "Would you rather I used my belt?"
Would I rather he used his belt? I begged him to use his belt! For a few
seconds, I *longed* to feel the familiar slap of his belt. He stepped back,
and slashed the strap across my calves. He only whipped my legs, striking
hard and accurately, leaving me staggering. "You seem fairly well warmed-up
now, squirming and whimpering like that. Now let's get back to business."
And the rubber tubing thumped across my buttocks again. I was in so much
pain I was getting dizzy, sagging against the restraints on my wrists. I had
told Sasha this wasn't a neighborhood that paid much attention to thumps
and screams, so he hadn't gagged me. It hardly mattered. A few more strokes
would leave me too exhausted to scream. I had lost count, and the surface
of my skin was numb between the ferocious blows and the raging pain
under the surface.
Then Sasha was behind me again, both hands on my shoulders. His tongue ran
very lightly down my spine. Countless nerves woke up, twitched, screamed at
me. Then he was kneeling, caressing my bruises. His beard brushed the
savage bruises on my buttocks, and I felt it gentle and fleeting through a
wave of pain. I knew I was home.
We made love, and talked until late. I slept in his arms that night, feeling
safer and more at home than I had ever felt in our own town. He left on
Sunday, which was wrenching sad, but worth it.
Adrian.
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