Love Is Ǝvil

14 But None Return. When Will They Learn?

Marshall watched the window of the motel room. Only a small light was on, barely enough to shine through the thick curtains. At least it was in the back of the parking lot this time. He was leaning against his car, biting his lip and stroking his tattooed wrist. Even though it was too dark to read, the words seemed to glow: Slit Me.

He shouldn't do this. Don't be a bitch, you want it, hard. I know you do. Maybe he could give this whole gay thing another try. His therapist was right, the times were changing on this, slowly but some. Why couldn't he? Because you're a pussy. He had to try his best. Once, he had wanted to die because of this. He couldn't have that again, he had a family to care for.

He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the car. With slow steps he reached the door and his hand trembled slightly, when he turned the door knob. "Hey", he said quietly into the room. It looked exactly like all the other rooms.

"Hey", the blonde smirked, "almost thought you bailed on me." He was tall, at least eight inches taller than Marshall and with a lean body underneath the tight, sleeveless shirt. There was a tattoo covering his left arm.

Marshall didn't respond the smile and admitted: "Well, almost did. This ain't ... I don't know." He shrugged. There was no reason to dwell on his insecurities. He needed to move past them, not drown in them even more.

The blonde, his nickname in the app was Striker, cocked his head. "Your first time here?"

"Might as well be." Marshall took his jacket off. "Look, I ain't here to spill my life story. Just, let's get on with it. You wanna fuck or what?"

Striker smiled thinly. "Sure, let's get on with it." He grabbed Marshall's arm and pulled him in close. A tongue licked across Marshall's cheek, a piercing scratched over his skin.

"What the hell?", he shoved the blonde away and wiped over his face. "What was that for?"

Striker scoffed. "Don't be a bitch." He pushed hard against Marshall's chest and shoved him onto the bed. One hand he pinned down on the sheets.

Marshall tried to free his arm. "Son of a bitch, get off me!" This got off to a bad start, a very bad start. This was exactly why he warned his daughters not to meet with people from the internet. You never know what crazy asshole you gonna get. Looked like he got the jackpot.

The blonde wrapped his fingers around Marshall's throat. "Now, now, you wanted to fuck. Let's fuck. No backsies."

"Fuck you!", Marshall growled. "Let go of me, asshole!" His free hand grabbed for the wrist on his throat, tried to pull it away. No luck, the tanned hand was like a bench vise. His breathing grew stertorously.

Striker stopped pinning his wrist down, instead he used that hand to lift Marshall's shirt up. Exposing his skin to the cold air and the wicked stare. "Not bad, you take care of yourself", he said jokingly.

Marshall wanted to hurl another Fuck you! at the guy, but his throat wasn't working anymore. He could barely breath, let alone speak. Fear froze in the pit of his stomach. His nails scratched at the hand around his neck, that was slowly squeezing the life out of him.

What irony! Because he didn't want to dwell on his suicidal tendencies, he now was getting murdered. Fuck this!

Striker bend down to him and once more licked across Marshall's cheek. "What you like more: getting your ass fucked or your mouth? You choose. I don't care either way, I'm a nice guy like that."

Marshall squirmed underneath the blonde.

"Mouth it is", Striker decided and his thumb reached up to stroke over Marshall's lips. "This pout of yours is really inviting, you know that? The pic doesn't do it justice."

Great, a chatty asshole on top of it all.

The hand on his throat crept higher, clasped around his jaw and forced it open. A gargled sound escaped him. The blonde stuck his pierced tongue into his mouth. Marshall gagged. Then he bit down, hard.

Striker recoiled. "The fuck, you bit me!" He spit on the floor and frowned. "Fuck, you bit me bloody." His grip loosened in irritation.

Marshall shuffled back on the bed. With all the force he could muster, he kicked against Striker's chest. Gasping for air. "Fuck you." More a wheeze than an insult. He stumbled around the bed and reached for his jacket. He needed to get out of here.

Strikers hand snapped around his und pulled him close again. "What're you doin'?"

"Getting out of here, asshole", he growled and struggled to free his hand.

Striker bared his teeth. "You wanted to fuck, let's fuck. Be good and open your mouth wide." A mean, disturbing grin showed his teeth.

Marshall spit in Striker's face. "Piss off!" With his free hand he punched the blonde hard. The next second, he grabbed his jacket and ran through the door. His car seemed too far away and his key seemed too jammed in his pocket.

When he sat in his car, only the familiar and safe click of the door locks allowed for a pause and to catch his breath. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight. "Fuck", he mumbled, "fuck, fuck, fuck.."