I awake and try to open my eyes. For some reason, I cannot. My left eye is caked with dried tears, while my right eyelid barely does anything. With a swipe of my finger, I wipe off a sizeable amount of what feels like tiny grains of salt.
The room is lit up by the daylight from outside. I can see the night table next to me. On it next to the lamp is a tall glass of iced water. It has been sitting there long enough that the ice that once filled the glass floats on top. The cubes are barely the size of grapes now.
My desire to drink and quench my thirst is trumped by the longing to return to sleep. I close my eyes to begin my return to the peaceful slumber.
A horrible sound prevents me from dozing off. It is a prolonged low bass sound. A snore. It is Sgt Tate snoring behind me. I don't think twice about his sound.
Knowing that his snore will keep me awake for a few seconds, quenching thirst now becomes the prominent desire. I pull the blankets back. The simple act of moving my arm makes me aware that my entire body is sore.
Now, for the first time this morning, I recall the events from last night. It seems like I had dreamt it, but in fact I feel every bit of the after effects.
Pulling my body to the edge of the bed inflicts more soreness. I reach for the glass of water. I know I need to sit up to drink. Using my arm for support, it takes me about a minute before I am sitting upright on the edge of the bed staring at the water.
I notice that the glass is not alone on the table. Two small white pills sit next to the water. They are the same pills Sgt Tate gave me last night. He must have put them and the glass of water here.
I take one of the two pills and drink down the thirst quencher.
Another deep snore comes from Sgt Tate. I now remember that I told him that I didn't want him to sleep in the same bed with me. He must have crawled onto his side, that bastard.
I painfully twist to look over to his pillow. It sits there without a head resting on it. In fact Sgt Tate is not in bed at all. I begin to wonder where he is. He can't be in another room, as his snore is very loud.
Another snore begins, and I look in its direction. I finally see him, asleep in the chair near the window, still wearing the same t-shirt and pants from last night. His head rests on a pillow against the window. He does not look comfortable.
Feeling an urge to piss, I stand. My sore legs support my body's weight. I can barely walk a straight line.
Walking around the bed to head towards the bathroom I look at the sleeping giant. So peaceful is his slumber. On the table next to him is a matching glass of water. Next to it is the gun he used to finally kill the buck I shot.
I have no idea why the gun is here, but I continue to walk into the bathroom not caring.
The person in the mirror's reflection hasn't changed from last night. The eye is still swollen and purple. My burn has begun to scab over. It is my ball sack that I am amazed with. The balls are huge, about double their normal size. I smile because I kinda wish that they would remain this large.
I step up to the toilet. Instead of holding my cock, it just makes sense to lean over the toilet and let gravity point my cock to the toilet water. My arm holds onto the wall in front of me. Once the piss begins, I cannot stop the strong stream.
There is a certain amount of pleasure I get draining my bladder. When the last trickle falls, I just stand there with my eyes closed supported by the wall, almost falling asleep vertically.
"What are you doing there?"
I recognize Sgt Tate's voice. I have a flashback to the same voice that last night when it said, "Why don't you ask him? He's right over there"--effectively giving Boris the green light to torture me.
I don't want to continue last night's argument. I don't want to deal with what happened. I don't want to talk. I just want to sleep some more.
Looking at him standing in the doorway, I don't say anything. Straightening up, I flush the toilet.
I walk slowly. He steps aside to let me pass.
"Dan . . ." He doesn't finish speaking his thought.
As I pass his chair, I look outside at the lake. That wonderful island is barely visible through the morning fog. I glance down at the table and the gun.
"That's so that no one will hurt you."
Now he says it. That would have been wonderful to hear last night as I was begging him not to leave me with Boris.
Continuing to the bed, I climb in. In doing so, my legs come together squeezing my swollen balls. I yelp--my first sound of the morning.
"Are you OK? Anything I can get you?"
I look over my shoulder at him, really the first time I acknowledge him--even though it is only a glance. I just want sleep. Not saying a word, I return to looking forward as I get comfortable once again.
His barely inaudible gasp echoes in the room.
Sgt Tate comes into view as he walks to the bedroom door, which is strangely closed. I don't remember ever seeing it closed in my week here. He unlocks it and leaves in a hurry.
I begin to drift off, but not before I hear a crash sound in the distance. It doesn't concern me. I want sleep. I get it.
The sleep is most restful. I awake on Sgt Tate's side of the bed. I can easily look out the window at the lake and the island. The fog has lifted. It is easy to see the clearing where Sgt Tate and I sat next to one another and deeply connected without ever saying a word.
It seems so long ago that it happened. It is the last time we had together before Boris and Tard's arrival. Now the island feels miles away.
I just stare out of the window watching the gentle breeze moving the trees. Any other day I would have been bored shitless, but today those trees are life to me. I want to be out there enjoying the beautiful day, but I just lay here. I don't want to go downstairs at all.
But I know I have to get up some time. I feel the need to go to the bathroom again, but this time I need to shit. I can't remember the last time I did it on my own; Sgt Tate has been having me douche out.
Looking around, I do not see Sgt Tate asleep anywhere. The door is open. Slowly getting out of bed, I stagger to the bathroom again.
This time I sit on the toilet. Initially I feel nothing, but I know that something needs to come out. I bear down, and then I start to shit. It is an extremely firm turd. As it is about to come out, pain ignites my ass lips. I push hard and I scream at the same time.
When Boris wedged Gunny Valley's sword in the crack of my ass, the blade kept scraping across my ass lips. Now, it feels raw. The stretching to take a dump only inflames it.
I scream again as the turd escapes my ass. My breath becomes erratic due to the pushing and the pain. I just sit here, not wanting to move and not wanting to push anymore.
I hear Sgt Tate call me, "Dan?" A few moments later he stands in the doorway. "I heard you scream. Are you ok?"
"I'm going to be all right." I answer him without thinking.
I look up at him. He looks like shit. His face looks worried, his hair is a bit messed up, as much as his short hair will allow.
"Do you need anything?"
"No Sir. I'm done here. I'm just giving my asshole a moment to breathe. It is a bit raw from last night."
"Were you burned there?"
"No. He put Gunny Valley's sword in my crack to rest on my asshole. Whenever I moved, it scraped across my asshole." He winces at that. "Don't worry about it."
"Aw, Puppy."
"Sir, I'll be fine."
"How are those pills working for you?"
"They are good. They're making me tired."
"I'll be right back." He leaves me. It's for the best really. I am starting to want to get away from him again.
I finish my business on the toilet and get up. Walking over to the vanity to wash my hands, I cannot look away. I have to look at myself again in the mirror. The car wreck that everyone slows down to examine stares back at me. For the longest time I just look--look without moving. It is a full ten minutes before I feel the need to run my fingers over my scab that has formed over my burn. It is firm and crusty. I lift up on edge. It hurts.
"Don't do that." Sgt Tate returns to the bathroom. "Didn't you mother ever tell you not to pick at a scab?"
She did. I think every mom says that.
"Let me see it."
He approaches. Initially I feel the urge to tell him to fuck off, but he needs to see it. He needs to see it all.
Sgt Tate runs his finger over the scab. "The scab will help it heal faster. You want it open to the air. It is going to itch like a motherfuck, but don't itch it." He then examines my eye. "That's gone down since last night. You'll have a black eye for a few weeks."
He kneels in front of me and holds my balls gingerly. I wince as he first touches me.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
I angrily respond, "Now you say that?"
His shoulders drop as his head temporarily looks down. He quietly instructs me to turn around. I feel his hands spread my ass cheeks. "Yeah, it looks a little raw."
Standing up Sgt Tate retrieves a gel from the vanity and applies it to my ass. Instantly, the moist gel soothes my hole. His attention to me feels weird.
"Now climb back into bed."
I walk back to the bed. Before I climb in, I see a tray with a couple of sandwiches and a glass of milk.
"I thought you would be hungry."
"Thanks. Yes Sir, I am."
"Go ahead and eat in bed. I'll clean it up afterwards."
I start eating the sandwich.
There is a plastic remote, about the size of a new car's key fob. It has a couple of buttons one big button and a smaller one that switches a little light between "low", "medium", and "high".
"If you need me, just push that button. I designed and threw together an alarm system. That remote will alert me downstairs, and I will be up here in no time. If I don't come up here, keep pushing it. Got it?"
"Yes. Thank you Sir." I call him Sir mostly out of habit.
"Go ahead and test it out." I push the button, but don't hear anything. "Hold on." He goes out of the room. About ten seconds later, he shouts, "Try it again."
I push the button a second time.
He comes back into the room, "I heard it that time. It will work."
"What time is it?"
"About 2:30." Wow, I have been asleep for some time, more than twelve hours. The sandwiches are wonderful. The milk is ice cold and good.
Before I finish my lunch, Sgt Tate returns into the room with my laptop. I smile.
He sees my smile and matches it with his own. "That will help you pass the time."
I am eager to get back on line. Sgt Tate leaves me to the internet.
There are tons of e-mails, most of which are garbage. There is one from Joe sent the day after we said goodbye. I smile as I read it. It is very short: "Don, I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday. I would love to hook up with you again when you come back home. I hope you had the balls to tell Tate what you think. We'll talk when you come home. Joe. P.S., I rode back to the rest area last night, oh man, it was funnnnnn! I missed you. No one was there to slurp the cum out of my ass."
I smile. It takes me an hour or two to write him to tell him everything that has transpired, but ultimately I don't send it. There is no way for me to explain everything that has happened in e-mail.
I notice that my battery is down to twenty percent. I need to get my charger. Pulling off the covers, I begin to get up. But then, I realize that Sgt Tate gave me a remote to call him. I push the button.
I like this being waited on by him. He's so accommodating.
He races in the room. "What do you need boy?"
"My computer's power charger." He leaves without further questioning. Yes, I can get used to this. What surprises me is not that he is doing this, but that neither of us really have addressed what happened last night. It is like I broke my leg, and he's the nurse who has been hired to help me.
He returns with the charger in his hands. Instead of handing it to me, he plugs one end into the wall and the other into the laptop.
"If you want TV, the remote is in the table, you just have . . . oh never mind." He walks around the bed to his side. I do not see a television set anywhere. He retrieves a remote from the nightstand drawer. He pushes a button and the large artwork across from the bed starts to lower revealing a good size television behind it. "Here's the remote." He tosses it on the bed.
Before he leaves, he turns to me and asks, "What would you like for dinner?"
"I don't know Sir."
"I'll figure out something." He leaves.
The TV is on, but I primarily surf the internet. I look at my porn sites, my favorite bands, movies, anything. I feel completely familiar doing this, but strangely, I feel like the sex sites are so empty. It's hard to see a Daddy site where a boy is being tied up and his Daddy is going to fuck him for the sake of fucking him. It seems that the sex is fake. The fantasy has disappeared. I never assumed that what I used to jack off to is nothing like my reality of the last week. I thought that the man who would take my virginity would be a tender but masculine man, not the behemoth man who sold me like a car and then is acting all nice now. The same man who shit in my mouth one day, and then taught me how to shoot and hunt the next. Even the bad parts of my time with Tate have more depth than this site, where the focus is all about sticking cock into ass.
I know it is getting late in the evening as the sun is getting ready to set.
Sgt Tate comes into the room with a small table in his hands. He sets it down next to the window where he slept last night. A second chair joins the first.
He brings in dinner, chicken fettuccini in pesto with broccoli. The broccoli reminds me of last night's meal and the vomit that followed. But it tastes good now.
We watch the sunset while eating, and don't say a word.
He cleans up and removes the extra furniture.
I return to the internet surfing. I realize that I have not left the bedroom and its bathroom all day. Sgt Tate has made sure that I am comfortable, and yet nothing is mentioned about last night, which is fine by me.
It is getting close to eleven, and I would like something to drink. I have taken a pain pill, and I am starting to get tired. Pushing the remote's button does nothing. I have not seen Sgt Tate for an hour or two. I decide to leave the bedroom to get my own drink.
It feels weird leaving the room I have been comfortably confined to for the past day. My overall soreness has gratefully lessened.
Walking down the hallway I see a giant hole in the wall about softball size. It wasn't there last night. It looks like a fist went into it. That must be the loud crash I heard right before falling asleep. Sgt Tate must have punched the wall when he left me in the morning.
I continue downstairs. It is eerie. There are no sounds anywhere. I walk into the kitchen to get a glass of orange juice. As I down it, I see lights flickering emanating in the other room from the television.
I slowly walk into the other room. A naked Sgt Tate is sitting in the middle of the room with headphones on. He mustn't want to disturb me.
I approach him along side of him. Before I can walk into his periphery and get acknowledged, I look at the screen that he's so intently focused on.
On the screen are two figures. It takes me less than one second to realize that it is Boris and me from last night. I watch a few seconds and I slowly turn to look at him.
This is too disgusting. What is he doing? Is he masturbating over my torture? I can't see his hands moving. What kind of a freak is he?
I take another step and now he notices me. With his entire body seemingly paralyzed, only his eyes move to look me to his left. They are watered up.
Only his right hand comes up to pull the headset down to his neck. Now I hear my own screams coming from the speakers.
This is disgusting.
Sgt Tate slowly turns his head to the left towards me, but at the same time his head sinks into his neck. Looking up, I see his eyes through his thick eyebrows. The brows don't act as an instrument of asserting intense supremacy and power as he has done with me throughout the last week; instead they are mesh to hide behind. He has fear in his eyes, and he is doing what he can to hide from it.
I am not angry, which surprises me. I am more puzzled than anything else. I ask, "What are you . . . doing?"
He is frozen, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He doesn't speak. Our stares don't break.
His silence does give way, "Go away. Leave me." He's like a wounded dog.
"What? I'm not leaving. What the fuck are you doing?"
Looking at the screen and then at me he continues, "I had to. I had to." He starts to gasp.
"You had to do what?"
"I had to know what happened. I had to see it for my own eyes. I had to. I had to." He stammers these three words over and over. "I had to see what you felt. I have to experience your pain. I have to feel every pin that goes into you. I have to suffer. I have to suffer with you. I had to make me suffer your pain."
He wipes a tear away.
Oh my god. I look around him; he has empty water bottles around him and a few plates. He's been sitting here for a while.
"I have to know what I did to you. I HAVE to know what I did to you. I HAVE TO FEEL IT!" He shouts as he pounds his fist into his thighs. "I HAVE TO FEEL EVERY ONE OF YOUR SCREAMS!"
I walk to him as he trembles.
"I HAVE to know what kind of a fucking monster I am." There is no evidence of the man in constant control of his emotions. He is barely heard through his sobs. As I get near him, he pulls my body to him and buries his face in my stomach. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for this Dan. You deserve better than me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." I can barely hear him as his desperate sobs take over. "How could I? I'm so sorry. Dan, you have to know that I am sorry."
He clutches on to me for support. I cannot pull away, nor do I try. I do not know what to do with my hands, as his grasp prevents me from putting them at my side. I decide to hold his head within my arms. I don't think he has ever cried like that.
I don't know what to do. So I decide to keep holding him. The need to comfort this man completely overrides my desire to be rid of him. For a few minutes I stand there as he cries into me, with me stroking his head.
He keeps repeating that he is sorry.
"Shhh, Shhh, Shhh, Shhh." I reach over to a half full bottle of water. "Here drink this."
He drinks the water.
I decide to ease the tension, "Now I need to get you some pills for your fucking allergies."
He does smile a little bit, only to cover his eyes, "I'm sorry you had to see that."
I change the subject, "Your remote doesn't work. I've been pressing it for ten minutes."
"I had the noise canceling headphones on for the last hour. What do you need?"
"I already got my drink. I'm starting to doze off from the pill. I'm going to head to bed."
"Let me help you." He stands, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"You don't need . . ." I know it's futile.
He follows me to the bedroom.
What am I doing? I don't trust him, and here I am consoling him for feeling guilty for what he did. He should feel guilty.
What I saw out there is a man who is hurt himself. I can see that. I can feel his sorrow.
After pissing, I climb into bed. After he turns off the lights, the TV and my laptop, he pulls the covers over me.
I get comfortable by leaning on my right side, to avoid putting my scab in a contorted position.
He stands behind me in the same position he did last night. I glance over my shoulder at him for a few seconds. Our positions remind me of last night and his role in my torture. He gave me over to Boris, who wanted to kill me. He is responsible. I can't be pulled in to his world again.
There he stands--like last night--waiting for me to respond. He is hurt, and I won't be the one to forgive him. I can't be.
Like last night and this morning, I returning to facing away from him. I hear him deliver the same sigh that he did this morning.
But unlike last time, instead of telling him that I hate him or this morning where I ignored him, I just say, "Get in here."
Holding him in my arms tonight as he cried, I see the pain he has inflicted on himself. This is deep pain. I cannot allow myself to let him suffer. So inviting him into his own bed seems like the only thing I can do to help him. It's the only thing logical.
He's in the bed behind me within a few seconds. His big massive arm comes around front holding me in place.
The pill is really kicking in. He leans over to kiss my cheek. I don't respond, but that kiss is all I need to fall asleep.
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