Snippets of an affair ~ First Trust

[zahraowens]

Title: Snippets of an affair (11/?) ~ First Trust Author: zahra_owens Beta: namarie120, with a little help from iona_lewis Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 3614 Warnings: Beware of boy-loving, guy on guy, and what's more, they're cheating on their boyfriends. Also angst. !! Mention and evidence of NON-CON (not explicit) !! Disclaimer: Persons and events described here may, on the surface, seem familiar, but I don't have a clue what I'm talking about. Author's note: The POV may change throughout the story, so the 'I' from this chapter may not be the 'I' from the previous chapter.

INDEX / PREVIOUS

I try to plan my work life around your visits. This is the upside of working freelance and being the best at what I do. I've carved out a tight little niche for myself and this means that everyone works around the schedule I set for myself. If I say I'm not available, then they wait until I am. In the end, I still have to make a living, though. My clients pay me well, which means I don't exactly need to work full time, but I'm not independently wealthy, so on the days you're not here, I try to plan to get some work done.

The fight we had at my late mother-in-law's apartment brought us even closer together in the end, but it didn't change anything fundamental. You still go to your apartment, which I've noticed you no longer call home, and we've found our own particular rhythm. You've explained to me that you lover is usually gone three or four days at a time and then he's home for anything up to a week. You've slipped me his schedule, so I can plan ahead as well and for a while this works out quite well. I hate to see you leave every time, though.

Whenever you leave to go back to him, we usually don't talk much. I know you don't want to go back, but as long as you won't tell me why you can't leave him, there's very little I can say. In the beginning I used to practically beg you not to go back to him, but this only made our parting more difficult. Now I try to stay busy, usually with some work around the house, and I try to keep the little green devil at bay. The day you leave you don't look happy, but at least you look better than when you come back here.

When you return a few days later, you look tired and stressed out and on days like that I've had my head snapped off more than once. It takes you several hours to settle down enough so we can talk and this is what worries me. What does this man do to you to get you in such a state? And more importantly, why do you put up with it? You don't come across as a wuss, as the kind of guy who lets a lover walk all over you, yet when it comes to him, you apparently do. I hope that one day, you'll trust me enough to tell me about it, but I hope you find the strength to leave him before he does some irreparable damage to you.

****

On the day of our one year anniversary, that is one year after our first one-night-stand in the wedding reception toilets, you arrive unexpectedly. I know you said your lover would be home today, because I am on my way out the door to a meeting about the photo shoot I need to work tomorrow. You're in a foul mood, like you always are when you come from him, and you reject any move I make in your direction. The lines under your eyes are even darker than usual and you're withdrawn.

"Do you want me to stay home with you?" I ask, trying to voice my concern. You shake your head, but don't say anything. "Help yourself to anything, right? Eat something?" You nod, but I know you won't eat without me. Although I'm very worried, I know I'll be home in an hour or two and maybe then you'll be in the mood to talk.

When I arrive back home two and half hours later, you're still in the same place I left you, arms wrapped around yourself and lying on the couch. You're wide awake and staring into nothingness, so I crouch down in front of you, but you barely acknowledge my presence. At least now you don't pull away when I try to touch you. I know I need to give you space when you're like this, but you've never been this sad and I can't let it lie this time, although I risk you telling me to stop asking questions.

"Did he hurt you?" You shake your head. "Did he hurt you more than he usually does?" You swallow, but don't answer. "Angel, if you don't tell me, I can't help you and I'll need to call a doctor, because you're worrying me too much to stay quiet this time. I know he hurts you and it breaks my heart, but you can't keep going to that house if he keeps doing this to you." I stopped using the word rape a long time ago, because whenever I do, you're on the defensive. Even after all this time, you've told me so little about what exactly he does to you, I can only guess.

I run my hand over your hair and get up to go to the kitchen where I fix your favourite food, egg sandwiches. While I putter around the kitchen, I hear you walk to the upstairs bathroom and take a shower. I'm already in the living room with the food, the fire lit in the hearth, when you return, your hair still wet and wearing clean clothes. You smile slightly before sitting down next to me on the couch and grabbing one of the sandwiches off my plate. I'm surprised at how hungry you are and soon need to get up to make more.

You follow me around the kitchen like a puppy and I try not to show that you're making me nervous, because I'm happy that your mood has changed from intensely sad and almost catatonic, to clingy and needy of my affection.

An hour later, our stomachs filled and the fire in the fireplace burning, you finally start talking. I'm sitting on the couch and you're lying down, your head resting on my legs. We're both facing the fire and our positions are as non-confrontational as possible, given that you still won't let go of me.

"I forgot how peaceful it is here," you say, sighing contently.

I'm running my hands through your longish hair and it's silky smooth now it's dry. You move your head every time I stop moving my hands, so I continue slowly stroking you.

"Thanks for letting me crash."

"You know you're always welcome here. That's why I gave you a key," I answer, trying not to add 'and I'd love for you to move in with me permanently'. Instead I say, "You know you can come here when I'm not home as well, right?" You nod. "This is your safe place, okay?" After a little while you nod again. I start wondering where that confident young man is who pushed me into a toilet stall and fucked me mercilessly. I caught a glimpse of him when he fucked me after our fight, but other than that, this past year, you've turned into a scared, scrawny bundle of nerves and all I've been able to do is offer you a place where you can feel safe and loved. Judging from the effect it's had on you, that isn't enough.

You shiver and I put my hand on your shoulder, then you sit up.

"Let me get you a blanket and I'll make some coffee to warm you up." You contort your face and I smile. "Cocoa?" You nod frantically. This time you let me go to the kitchen alone and when I return, you're curled into the blanket and you actually smile when I hand you the hot cup.

"So you have to work tomorrow?" you ask.

I nod. "Yeah, I do." Scared that you're going to suggest going back to your apartment, I continue, "You can come with me, though. It may be boring, but it's probably better than sitting here alone with just your own thoughts for company."

"So what exactly do you do when you go to work?" you ask, turning towards me. You wince slightly as you get more comfortable, but I don't want to darken your mood again by asking you about that.

"I take photographs," I answer.

"I know that," you reply, rolling your eyes. "What kind of photographs and what can I do if I come along?"

"Food, mostly."

You almost spit out your hot chocolate, but manage to swallow it before you laugh out loud. It's a hearty belly laugh and I don't immediately understand what's so funny about me being a food photographer.

"Don't laugh," I answer and you stop before giving me a sympathetic look.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, it just struck me as funny all of a sudden. I thought you were going to say 'weddings' or something." You move closer to me and lean against me. "I suppose it's an easy subject. It doesn't run away or even move when you're setting up your shot."

I realise you're still mocking me and this time I smile too, seeing it brought you so much delight. "Well, come with me and you'll see just how much work goes into those glossy photos in the celebrity chef's cookery books."

"As long as we get to eat the food afterwards, I'm game!" you say before lying down again. I don't have the heart to say that camera food isn't edible, because it goes through so many stages to make it look good, by the time I can take a picture it's cold and could be coated with hairspray or something equally revolting.

We sit there for a while, watching the flames dance, and then you suddenly start talking again.

"He did hurt me this time."

I take a deep breath and try to control myself, prevent myself from getting up and touching you all over to see where it hurts. Instead I start stroking your hair again.

"We went out to a club with some friends of his and they wanted me to pick them up a young kid. He looked about fourteen, but he said he was eighteen. Anyway, they were popping pills and drinking and I knew it would get rough, so I gave the kid a way out. Of course they were horny and raring to go, so..."

Your voice trails off and I try to stay calm, knowing that you'll retreat if I push too much, but you pull away from me anyway, sitting upright on the couch next to me, your knuckles buried in the pillow and arms stretched as if you can't bear to feel your entire weight yet.

I need to know whether you need a doctor, though. "Will you let me take a look at...at where he hurt you?"

You shake your head vigorously. "He didn't rape me. He didn't and neither did his friends. Yes, they all fucked me." You turn to me briefly. "With condoms." Then you turn to face the fire again. "But it wasn't rape. I didn't tell them they couldn't do it, so it wasn't rape."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" I get up and start pacing. "Did you ask all of them to fuck you?" You shake your head. "Did you tell them it was okay to use you like a whore?" As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to take them back. You close your eyes and your body tenses up and I know I've just hurt you more than all their mindless abuse ever could. "Angel, I'm... I'm so sorry, I..."

I tentatively move closer to you again and to my surprise you don't bolt, so I sit down next to you and carefully take your hand in mine, giving you ample opportunity to retreat. After playing with your fingers for a while, I take a deep breath. "I know he must have some power over you, because I don't recognise in you the type of man who would let himself be used that way. Here with me, you're always pretty vocal about what you want and need and you're very much in control of your own actions. It's very hard for me to wrap my head around you relinquishing control, unless it's some BDSM thing you and he play where you're his slave."

You shake your head. "It's nothing like that. Master/servant relationships require the Master to make sure his servant is taken care of and not harmed in any way. It also implies that the servant is actually the one in control."

I give you a look showing I'm quite impressed with what you just told me and for the first time since you arrived, a real smile breaks on your face. "Don't ask." Then you seem to change your mind. "I might as well tell you." You take a deep breath before continuing your story. "When I was fifteen, I lived in South Africa with my parents and my sister. Because we moved around all the time - my family owns three large vineyards - I never went to school, but I had a tutor and actually my previous one, who also taught my sister, left after she'd finished her education, so he was replaced by an older gentleman in his forties. He was very strict with me in an old school sort of way. Whenever I came to class I had to dress appropriately, sit with a straight back, keep my hands on top of the desk. He scared the hell out of me, so I complied. But he was the first one who actually recognised that I had trouble reading, and he worked very hard with me to help me tackle my problems. Anyway, he was a very elegant man and he'd sussed out that I was gay, don't ask me how, so by the time I was sixteen our relationship turned into friendship and shortly after that it became sexual. I know this sounds like abuse, like he was abusing his power over me and strictly speaking I'm sure that what we did was wrong, but I have no hard feelings towards him. If anything, he prevented me from doing anything stupid in my sexual exploration. He did teach me to discover my own body, but although he was the Master and I was his servant, he always made me feel in control. He never did anything I didn't want to do."

"Yeah, but you said he scared the hell out of you, so you didn't really feel like you could just say no?"

My face must show real doubt, because you squeeze my hand. "Yes, he touched me and he watched me touch myself and I know he was aroused by that, but we never actually had sex. I never saw him naked and before we did anything he always asked me if this was what I wanted. We were almost always alone in the house and he gave me a safe and comfortable way to learn about sex. By the time I was ready for the real deal, I knew what I liked and didn't like.

"So what happened to him?"

You bite your thumbnail and look at me only cursorily. "My father caught us. I tried to explain that I was the one who seduced him, not the other way around, but that only made it worse. He couldn't understand that I actually wanted this, that I wanted a man, not a woman in my bed, and when I told him he'd have to accept me for what I was, he sent me away. He told me he never wanted to lay eyes on me again."

"That's a bit harsh," I remark.

"My family aren't the most open-minded bunch. My father wanted me to take over the family business, even though I was never interested and my older sister was. He said that business wasn't meant for a woman, so my sister found herself a husband and now she's allowed to handle some of the work, but only because Father thinks that her husband does it all. So you can imagine finding out his only son was queer wasn't exactly met with enthusiasm." You lean against me and rest your head on my shoulder. "Father put a sum of money in a bank account and sent me to England. I haven't seen or spoken to them since."

I kiss your hair and squeeze your hand.

"So, anyway..." You don't finish your sentence and get up from the couch. I can tell you still hurt when you move from the pained expression on your face, which you try to hide as soon as you realise I saw it. You rub your hands on your thighs and seem to hesitate, a little unsure what to do next.

"Busy day tomorrow," I say to break the tense silence. "Why don't we turn in early tonight?"

As soon as I stand up, you sit down again. "Go ahead, I'll be up later."

I crouch down in front of you and take your hands in mine. "Angel, I am capable of going to bed with you without jumping your bones." You lower your gaze as if you're ashamed. "I'm perfectly happy to just sleep with you in my arms or just share my bed with you." You still won't look at me. "I understand that you don't want to have sex with me right now or even tomorrow or the day after that and that's okay with me. I've never demanded anything from you -"

"I know that," you interrupt, still not looking at me.

I figure I have nothing to lose, so I push on. "Come upstairs with me and let me take care of you."

You shake your head, but not with much determination.

"Angel, I know it's embarrassing, but trust me, please?" I get up and hold out my hand. To my surprise you take it and we silently walk upstairs to our bedroom.

I take a little detour to the bathroom to both get some cream from the first aid box and give you the privacy to get ready on your own. When I return, you're on the bed, facing away from the door and I sit down behind you. I gently place my hand on your hip to alert you to my presence and I'm glad you don't wince, although I can tell you're tense. Slowly I push your boxers down and I try not to sigh too obviously when I see the marks on your skin. You have a scratch on one of your buttocks and small but obvious bruises near your hip. I place my hand over them and realise they're the impression of fingertips, where they no doubt gripped you way too tightly to hold you down while... I don't have to look to know the other side is probably just as bad. I take the tube of ointment I brought and squeeze a generous amount on my fingers. "This is going to be cold, Angel," I warn you before spreading your ass cheeks. Your entrance looks red and abused and I'm not surprised to hear you gasp when I gently rub the soothing cream over it. After wiping my fingers on my own boxers, I move to lie behind you and pull you into my arms.

You allow me to hold you and even snuggle closer until you suddenly shiver. "It stings!"

I squeeze you tighter, until I realise you're shaking with laughter. There are tears in your eyes though. "That stuff fucking stings!"

"I know," I say, trying to sound soothing, but I can't help chuckling too, relieved that you can still laugh although I realise it's more out of misery than anything else.

You turn around, pulling the duvet over us and snuggle closer into my arms. "I can't believe you just rubbed ointment on my arsehole."

I wipe the curls away from your face and look at you. "I should really take pictures of those bruises too," I say softly.

"To what purpose? If I press charges for harassment, he'll just tell them that I like rough sex and that he only gave me what I like."

I shake my head in surrender. "Just to have a record of what he did to you."

"I don't need a reminder, thank you," you reply coldly. "When we first got together, I confessed to him that sometimes I was in the mood for a little rough sex. He took that as a free pass to fuck me around whenever he felt like it, so one day I pressed charges. Don't tell me I need to go to the police. They already had a good laugh at my expense."

We lie there for a little while, just getting warm under the covers when you suddenly change your mind. "Okay, do it, but I'm not going to the cops and I want you to develop the pictures yourself."

I nod and get up to get my camera and a strong light. You silently show me the marks, even the ones I hadn't noticed before on your upper arm and your shoulder because you were still wearing your t-shirt. I try to stay unaffected by them, just like you pretend to be, but I know my face betrays more than I want it to.

Later, when we're under the duvet again and in the dark, I feel you silently shuddering. I don't say anything, I just hold you close and try to sooth you with my touch. Right now, everything that's important to me is right here in this bed and the rest of the world can just fuck off.

INDEX / NEXT