Shay Sheridan

"Come here."

Hand on his neck. Stroking, idling there, waiting.

He resists.

"Come on. Come here." Silky voice. Sulky. "Why not?"


Promising. "I'll make it good for you, you know I will. Come here, baby."


But he goes. He always does.

It starts with the offer of wine. Or beer. Or on a really bad night, whiskey. But it started before that, really. Long before that, years before, the day after Ray got married, maybe, or the first time his wife looked at him and her eyes said what have I done? But right now, tonight, it might start with a fight over nothing, a missed dinner party, say, or him wearing the wrong clothes, or an all-night stakeout and forgetting to call. Or nothing that obvious. A cold shoulder, or an icy look. A slammed door.

"Easy. Easy. I can make it better." That mouth. Oh God, his mouth, taking him in, taking him over.

The first time, he came here after a fight with Stella because he had nowhere else to go, and because of the promise he could bring his problems, share them, lighten the load. And he did feel better, letting it out in a trickle of words until the offered booze began to loosen his tongue and open him up so he could release the shame and the guilt and the pain and finally the tears, dump them all onto the other man, who understood, he said, who'd been there, he said. He'd take the load, ease the pain, he said. And Ray believed him. He owes him, after all.

"Tell me. Tell me you want it."

"Oh, God, oh God, no, I don't, I don't want—" Fingers dig into his thighs, holding him down, bruising him. Locking him in place as the hot mouth sucks him in, sucks him off. He wants to break free, wants to escape, get out of here, because this is fucked, this is sick, but his body won't obey. "--Please don't, please, yes, do it, yes, please, please—"

He used to feel protected here, relieved, when he took the glass of wine or whiskey or the bottle of beer from the outstretched hand, accepted the arm around his shoulders, the comforting pat on his back. Heard the shaded voice say, "Tell me. You can tell me."

Now he knows the warmth and the pats and the booze were preludes to something else, something darker, something more about control and power and submission than about comfort, but there was relief anyway in giving over, letting go, letting himself be taken, diluting his hurt in sensation. And there was relief in those hands, those strong hands, soothing him, touching him, sliding from his back to his ass, from his shoulder to his groin, taking control. Surprise, apprehension at first, what is he doing, what does this mean, why is he -- he didn't know why it was happening, but it felt good, so good not to think, just to feel those hands. So he let him. He let him do what he wanted.

He always lets him.

He hates him.

I'll never come back, he thinks, every time.

But he always does. Every time.

"Please," he groans as the blunt pain slams into him, shocking him, rending him. Tears run down his face, from agony, from shame, from release.

"You want it. Tell me you want it."

"Please, please, please," and maybe it's please more or please stop, but he doesn't know, he can't know. He wants it over and he wants it never to end, and he's--

"Oh God!" he cries, "Sam—!"

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