Love Is Ǝvil

64 Just Lay Here With Me, Baby, Hold Me Please

"Fuck, fuck, fuck", every word hurt his throat. Marshall swallowed hard, more pain was squeezing his throat close and he angrily wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, but the tears didn't stop. "Shit, shit, shit", barely audible and he was alone anyway. He would always be alone. He pressed his knees against his chest, arms tightly wrapped around his shins and the curve of his back hit against the wall. Eyes focused on the display counting up the floors for the elevator. Not that he had anywhere to go.

Fucking crybaby! Go back and fuck him already! Or go to Big Eight's room, he'll like a good blowjob, won't he? Fucking whore!

His fingers clawed deeper into the fabric of his sweatpants. It was soft against his hard dick and soaking up the drops of precum he leaked, the want for more screamed in his bones. So his fingers clawed deeper into the fabric, scratching the skin underneath. Holding on to himself was all he had left, his body taut with need and angst and desperation and disgust. If he could just manage to sit here, to not move, to have this thing wash over him ...

But he couldn't keep his body from moving. A hand slank down into his pants and fisted his dick, arousal still here and still begging for attention. Pain tingled in his ass cheeks, a good feeling, a deserved feeling. Face pressed against his tucked up knees, hidden away from view that he shouldn't expect. The whole floor was booked in his fake name, nobody should be walking these halls. Yet he was completely exposed and this threat felt equally as good as the pain.

Fuckin' pervert! This ain't good enough. You need a dick in your hole! Fuckin' faggot, you're a slut. You only matter with a dick in your hole!

Even then he didn't matter but was only the means to an end - to someone else's pleasure. Which was fine, people always cared more about themselves than others, it was part of the human condition. Still it gnawed on him. The illusion of a different world had been tempting, where someone did care for him and wanted to be with him for his own sake, not for the spoils. But it always came down to this: His hole pitifully empty, his mouth pitifully empty and his dick beggingly hard. Maybe a funny punchline he could put into a song.

His release was as pathetic as his existence. Why was he so fucking wrong? With disgust he looked at his hand and the white substance that had spluttered on it. Suck his dick, slut! You need a fucking dick in your pussy! He felt so empty. Raising his hand close to his face, Marshall licked the cum off his fingers. His own wasn't what he needed. Closing his eyes he could lie to himself that he was licking off Nicolas's, that the fingers belonged to Nicolas. Maybe somebody else, it didn't really matter.

"Therapy doesn't make you into a different person." Echo of a female voice, of a truth he couldn't bear to hear. They could teach him to act better but he wouldn't become someone else. He was this: a slut with a loose pussy, an ugly useless nobody, a waste of life. Not even turning himself straight had worked in the end, why did he expect he could turn his core into something different? Why was this his core anyway? Wasn't he more? Couldn't he be a person some day? Compulsions and obsessions, she said, was that this feeling of subjection? Being at the utter mercy of something that didn't feel or think? Had he ever liked sex or was he just lying to himself? Why else would he feel a sense of belonging when he sucked a random guy's dick off? Even as a kid, it had to be a lie. Finding home and pride in being a sex toy, how was that a truth? His hole puckered with want, his ass burned from Nicolas's hand. Marshall wanted more.

Weakly he shook his head, face pressed against his knees. Nicolas tried so hard to be with him but Marshall could only do and say the wrong things in response. More of the things that wouldn't change. Because he didn't know how relationships really worked? Wasn't like his mother been a good role model or that the years with Kim had taught him the right things to do. Or because he rather lived the lie of a slut? Telling himself his life was good, that not remembering the faces of people he fucked was fine, that being mistaken for an actual whore was fine, that being handed around a party was fine. After all he wanted it, he liked it, he sought it out. Having a boyfriend and being a side bitch wasn't enough after all. Of course spending a party with a toy in his ass was better than without, no question. He needed all his holes stuffed, always, cum spurt on him or into him made everything better. How did he actually believe this shit? He was fucking sick.