London Diaries: Rent Boy - Poynter/Judd - Standalone
Title: London Diaries: Rent Boy
Author: russsel
Part: 1/1
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Poynter/Judd
Genre: AU
Summary: Dougie Poynter learns that those in charge of the public’s safety aren’t always what they make themselves out to be, and when he finds himself caught in the hands of one of them, he learns that not all of them are as bad as they seem.
A/N: This is what I get for listening to Marilyn Manson while writing. This has got to be the darkest fic I’ve written, and the most “edgy” for lack of a better word. Most hard hitting or something like that. It is a rape fic, so if that’s not your cup of tea, I suggest you don’t read it. But there’s a bit of fluff at the end, so that’ll probably take away from some of the darkness. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own McFly in any way.
Dougie Poynter’s customers never assault him.
Sure, some can be more aggressive than the others, sometimes to the point that his jaw starts to ache, feeling like it’s about to fall off, or that he won’t be able to sit down for a few hours, but they never go farther than a great, spine-tingling, animalistic fucking to sate that primal hunger for something to empty their juices into.
But that’s probably because they just don’t have the time. His rounds never exceed more than fifteen minutes, except for two exceptions stretching over an hour and a half, and most of them, after finishing with him, zip their trousers back up and slip on their rings, telling him with a wink that they don’t want their wives to “worry.” He doesn’t mind, and he’s already counting the notes fanned out in his hand the moment they open the door to leave.
Just as they never assault him, he never complains. He takes everything with a smile, a groan, a squeal. Anything to make his customers feel like they’re doing him like they’re high-end porn stars. Taking everything into consideration, it’s really Dougie who’s the star. It takes prowess and a pretty face to be able to take dicks, size ranging from a large banana to a baseball club, up his mouth and arse and still be able to smile and fake satisfaction whenever the situation calls for it.
But this time’s different. The man’s already pulling him through the door to the dirty motel room, the cheapest they could find in such short notice, with a mighty grip on his wrist, and it’s all Dougie can do not to yank his arm away and tell him, “Look, I’m not into this sort of stuff.”
Instead, he just bites his bottom lip and lets the man take him inside, each step syncing with his erratic heartbeat.
Dougie never complains.
The door shuts closed and every trace of light disappears. Before he can ask the man to flip the switch on, he’s thrown onto the bed at the center of the room in one great swing. He hears the man chuckle, a deep, dark chuckle that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stick up and sends a shiver down his spine, and not a second later, he can hear the rubbing of leather and the clinking of metal.
His heart beats faster.
He uses the darkness to cover his fear, as well as to take this chance to rub his wrist tenderly. He winces at the slight touch, however, and it’s then that he realizes that this man is really strong. And there’s absolutely no way to barge his way out through his tremendous bulk.
It’s then that he feels scared for his life.
He knows nothing about the man, and for all he knows, he could be a dangerous psychopath who’s escaped from an asylum. Or a serial killer, and Dougie’s lucky enough to be his next victim.
He’s been robbed of his ability to see for a while now, and with every second that passes, his heart beat picks up more speed, and he feels like if he looks down, he’ll see his heart beating through his skin.
In that moment, he tells himself it’s not worth it, not worth getting himself killed over.
Taking a moment to sigh deeply, and to prepare himself for a quick getaway, he inches over the scratchy sheets until he can feel, with the tips of his fingers, the edge of the bed. Locating it, he moves over one more time and hops off, lightly landing on his feet and crouching down catlike on the rug. With his eyes getting accustomed to the darkness, he surveys the room in one quick sweep, and he finds the man standing in the middle, his nose pointing right at the door, playing with something that Dougie can’t really make out. And he doesn’t try to.
Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, he begins to crawl, thinking that if he’s quiet enough, he can scuttle past him without being detected. But he forgets one thing.
If he can see in the dark, then naturally, the man can as well.
And so he does, and the moment Dougie realizes this, the fluorescent light bulb flashes brightly, flooding the room with blinding light, and Dougie sacrifices his balance to cover his eyes.
Falling on his stomach with a soft “oomf,” he watches helplessly as the man advances with a grin on his face, twirling a handcuff around a finger and gripping a police baton so hard, Dougie can see veins ripping through the skin of his wrist.
Without warning, the man lunges forward, and painfully slams his palm on Dougie’s face before he can utter a pathetic cry for help.
Officer Harry Judd is on his nightly patrol through the streets when he hears the chief’s voice blaring through his walkie-talkie, and he nearly jams his foot on the gas pedal in surprise.
“Officer Judd here,” Harry says hurriedly, steering himself back on the lane and turning down the volume of the device by twisting the little black knob at the top.
“McCormick hasn’t showed up today, so you have to cover his shift tonight,” says the chief, and Harry groans loudly before he can stop himself.
He’s been readying himself to go home for the most part of his patrol, the promise of the untouched box of ice cream in his freezer and his favorite show playing on the television too strong to ignore, and he’s exhausted. If anything went down in one of these streets, he probably wouldn’t be able to muster enough energy to try and stop it. And then he’ll get blamed for it, which would undoubtedly end in his losing his badge.
He doesn’t want to lose his badge.
“Copy that,” he tells the chief in a depressed tone, not having any alternatives, and he turns off his walkie-talkie before the chief can say anything else.
If McCormick shows up tomorrow, he’ll kill him.
Turning on the radio, he twists the dial to find a good station. A few seconds later, he finds one, and rolling down his window and sticking his arm out to tap his palm on the side of the car to the rhythm of the song, he sighs and begins to sling along.
It’s going to be a long night.
Dougie opens his eyes to slits.
He sees the room just as it was before he passed out, except for the pile of discarded clothes sitting near the door. He has a fleeting thought of the garments being familiar, and when he moves his head to look down, he figures out why.
He’s completely naked, and he sees the crown of the man’s head pointing right at him, his attention focused on trying down Dougie’s last ankle to the foot of the bed.
His heart jumps into overdrive when the man lifts his head up and locks eyes with him.
Dougie doesn’t need to look to know he’s been cuffed to the grilled, wooden headboard. He can feel the cold metal stinging his skin; the object is wound too tight on his wrists, and the prior abuse on one of them isn’t making matters any better.
He lets out a whimper just as the man stands up and rubs his hands together in delight.
He tries to scream, but an item of clothing is tied securely around his head through his mouth, and the louder he screams, the more his body hurts, and the more the man, now kneeling on the bed and undoing hi belt, laughs.
And so he does the only thing he can think of, the only thing he can do.
He cries.
Harry stops in front of a convenience store and peers through the automated glass doors inside. He sees people walking past, pushing shopping trolleys and carrying baskets overflowing with food and whatever else, and he wonders just how many people are still awake at this time of the hour.
He instinctively looks at the time in the rectangular screen beside the radio dial. The neon green numbers read 11:37. He sighs, backs up a few feet, and parks around the curb.
If he can’t have his ice cream in his cozy home, he’ll just have to recreate it in his stuffy cop car. It won’t be the same, he knows, and he knows he’ll be just as tired as he has been all night long, but at least it can busy him until his-McCormick’s shift ends.
He gets out of the car, pats his back pocket for his wallet, smiles faintly when he feels the bulge, and trudges inside the store.
Dougie bites the cloth around his mouth so hard, his teeth threaten to break, as the man shoves the police baton deeper inside of him. The man is obviously taking such pleasure in doing this, because when Dougie squeals in pain, the piece of ebony-painted wood nearly splitting him in half, the man laughs and pushes deeper and deeper, pressing his prickly face against Dougie’s cheeks, reddened and damp from all his crying as Dougie tries to turn his head the other way. When he does this, however, the man lifts his head up from Dougie’s, and with his meaty hand, smacks him across the face with one massive blow, and the impact makes Dougie’s neck crick.
His cheek is assaulted by a storm of needles, pricking him relentlessly until a red spot the shape of the man’s palm spreads across the rosy surface.
“Doon’t ye fookin’ turn away froom me,” the man says in his thick accent, and the sharpness in his voice unnerves Dougie like never before. At once, he stops trying to claw his way out of the shackles and his whole body tenses.
Slowly, he feels the baton slide out from inside him, and he winces at the stinging sensation as his muscles try to revert back to their original places. He’s never felt this way before, from any of his customers, and the bruises along his body make everything feel a thousand times worse.
He watches the man run his hand through his sweat-drenched copper hair in a disgruntled way and he tries to fight back a sob. The deep sigh that comes next doesn’t belong to him, and it makes him want to cry some more.
He’s not satisfied yet, Dougie can see it in his eyes, and he doesn’t know how far-or how long-it would take for him to obtain his fill.
The metallic glint in the man’s steel-blue eyes makes Dougie wriggle like a fish caught in a line.
He’s scared.
He just wants to go home.
Harry emerges from the double doors carrying a plastic bag filled with food. There’s an ice cream box, a bag of crisps, half a dozen doughnuts in various assortments, and two bottles of chilled iced tea.
He nods a pleasant greeting at a passerby before walking to his car. He opens the door, places the bag on the passenger’s seat, and slides inside.
He scratches his head before peering through the bag, debating to himself what to eat first and where to eat it. He finally settles with the doughnuts, and, lifting up the box and flipping open the lid, he takes one filled with jelly, and takes a huge chunk before sticking the key in the ignition.
Dougie groans with each thrust, the man’s hard breathing uncomfortable in his ears, the hair on his chest grinding Dougie’s soft, fragile skin, tainted by a handful of bruises for refusing to offer up his arse “like a good, little whore that ye are,” the sensation no different from that of sandpaper.
The man is gripping Dougie’s forearms in a vicegrip, effectively slowing his blood circulation, and right now, they feel cold, with yet more needles puncturing each and every inch of his skin.
When he tries to move his fingers, nothing happens.
“Fookin’ great arse ye got there, ye fookin’ whore,” the man whispers in Dougie’s ears, deep and raspy, like running a cactus plant up and down his neck, as he goes stronger, harder, faster, and Dougie’s breathing is labored enough as it is. The weight pressing down on him is too much to handle.
He feels like he’ll pass out again, and he wonders when it will end.
Harry finishes his fifth doughnut before venturing to pop the ice cream box open and marvel at the treasure inside. With his other hand, he reaches inside the bag for the plastic spoon, and when he finds it, he can feel his toes tingling. Ice cream is his absolute favorite thing in the world, especially chocolate-vanilla swirl, and whenever he sees a box, his toes just curl inward uncontrollably.
Dougie’s toes curl as the man sits up and releases his arms, never pulling out of him or stopping his gyrating motions, determined to empty himself inside the helpless boy.
Dougie ventures to look at his arm, and his stomach churns when sees a splash of dark purple mixed with green plastered on both of his arms. The previously restricted flow of blood immediately begin making up for lost time, and Dougie feels his heart beating like never before, and little by little he begins to feel his hands again.
But the man isn’t done yet.
He’s become more aggressive than before, and he props himself on his knees, gripping Dougie’s hips so hard, his nails almost draw blood, lifting the boy up despite the bondage on his ankles limiting his area of movement.
Dougie bites the cloth harder.
“Come on, flex that fookin’ arse fer me,” the man demands in a pained whisper, his facial features contorted in sexual agony, desperately wanting to shoot.
Dougie doesn’t give him the satisfaction and tries to relax despite the crushing pressure on his hips, but all it does is get him another smack across the other cheek, and this time, something inside his mouth has sprung a leak. The next second, he feels a trail of something warm dripping from the corners of his mouth like an open faucet, and when he looks down, he sees the crimson line traveling around the contours of his collarbone and around his chest.
It’s then that he feels his face swelling.
Halfway through his box of ice cream, propped between his legs, chilling his groin uncomfortably but disregarding it to the best of his abilities, Harry sees a cop car parked a few ways from him.
A car from his division.
He eyes the vehicle suspiciously as he replaces the lid on the ice cream. There are only two policemen patrolling the area tonight: him and Officer Jones, and he’s received the message that Danny is patrolling the other end of the area.
Curiosity sparked, he stalks closer to the other car and inspects its license plate.
That’s when he realizes he’s looking at McCormick’s car.
Anger boiling inside him, Harry parks his car and bursts out through the door, already going through in his mind the things he’ll say to him.
In his preparation, he looks around. The area is dark, lit only by a couple of streetlamps on both sides of the road, one of them flickering distractedly. Beside him is a motel, its massive sign missing some fluorescence and a few needing repairs. One of those sleazy motels, he reckons, where johns get their services from prostitutes without the risk of getting caught, as well as an offer of a comfortable bed to do their business in.
He shakes his head disapprovingly.
How people can have sex without love in the equation, he’ll never know. But what he does know is that if he’s wound up enough, he’ll order a raid. See how many people hide in these rooms.
Something pops in his head, however, and he turns back to McCormick’s car.
He wonders what on Earth he could be doing in such a place in this time of the night.
The man slaps Dougie’s arse after unloading into him, and Dougie whimpers as he feels the contents sliding out, soiling the insides of his thighs and the mattress beneath him.
“Great fookin’ time, ye fookin’ whore,” the man says devilishly, retrieving his trousers and slipping them on, keeping his damp dick out the unzipped fly to avoid wetting the fabric and leaving evidence, and Dougie tries to look away, up at the ceiling. The man only laughs.
“Fine, ignore me, ye fookin’ piece of shit,” the man says as he walks over and grabs Dougie’s shirt. With it, he wipes his dick, rolling the remnants of his semen into the garment, stroking it a few times to rid himself completely of the fluid. After he’s done, he compresses the shirt into a ball and throws it at Dougie. The fabric fans open in mid-flight, and half of the wetted part catches Dougie’s face, who waves his head as hard as he can to fling it away.
The man thinks this hilarious, and he breaks out in a fit of hearty laughter. It makes Dougie want to throw up.
“If I see ye again walkin’ them streets offerin’ to take it up yer sweet arse, I’ll come back fer ye,” the man threatens, and it makes Dougie’s blood run cold in dread. He unwillingly turns his head to the man, who’s pinning something to the front of his shirt. Something shiny, reflecting the fluorescent light directly into one of his eyes.
They widen when he realizes what it is.
A police badge.
This man is a police officer, and he’s just raped Dougie regardless of the law. This revelation makes him more scared than ever. If this man is a working policeman, then who else can he turn to?
“Like it, don’t ye?” the man asks, presenting the badge proudly as though it were a medal of honor.
Dougie doesn’t do anything.
“I’ll jus’ see ye around, then, yeah? Make sure ye warm up that arse for me.” With a wink, the man throws a key across the floor, turns the rusty knob, and lets himself out with a faint chuckle.
Dougie’s eyes are planted on the key, and he wonders how he’ll ever make it out of there.
“McCormick?” Harry asks as he sees the copper-haired man walking with his hands in his pocket from one of the motel rooms.
The man raises his head, peers through the darkness in a squint, and perks his brows when he recognizes Harry.
“Oh, hello there, Judd,” he greets Harry, and he can hear the sense of urgency in his voice.
Harry doesn’t return the greeting. “What’re you doing out here in the middle of the night when it’s supposed to be your shift?” he snaps angrily, and McCormick chuckles uneasily, already trying to inch past Harry to get to his car.
“Oh, that,” McCormick notes, suddenly realizing. “Joost wanted an early vacation, ye know? Chief’d never grant me that leave, so I decided to do it on me own, yeah?”
“So why there?” Harry persists, not buying the other man’s story.
“Personal reasons,” was all McCormick says, and with that, he fishes his car key from his pocket and makes for his car.
“If you won’t tell me, I’m going to go tell the chief,” Harry threatens, and McCormick stops in his tracks.
“I’m not in the fookin’ mood, Judd, so don’t fookin’ cross me,” McCormick says scathingly, and the rasp in his voice makes the hairs at the back of Harry’s neck stand up on end. But he stands his ground, nonetheless, and decides to challenge him further.
“With that attitude, I will most definitely will.”
McCormick turns his head to look at Harry over his shoulder with a scowl. “Then do it, ye fookin’ pussy. I don’t care what ye or the chief thinks. Just fookin’ leave me alone if ye still want yer teeth attached to yer fookin’ mouth.”
Not saying another word, McCormick storms off into his car and drives off, leaving a cloud of dust and a livid Harry in his wake.
Making a mental note to tell the chief everything after he checks what McCormick has been up to, he makes his way to the room.
Dougie has stopped trying to remove the handcuffs.
He’s just too exhausted and too pained to even move a muscle. But even staying still is hurting him, and though the more he struggles, the more painful the bruises feel, the more he stays still, the more he feels his entire body throbbing, screaming in agony.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Just then, as he’s about to try once again to wriggle his wrists out, the door slowly opens, and his entire body stiffens.
What if it’s him again?
He cranes his head to look, and he feels as though a large weight has just been lifted from his chest when he sees another man poking his head in.
“Oh, my God,” Harry says under his breath when he sees the naked boy bound on the bed. Handcuffs encircle his wrists, a band of purple bruises on each beneath the metal, a piece of cloth tied around his mouth, and socks tying his feet down at the foot of the bed. More bruises line his forearms, his stomach, and his thighs, and the area beneath him is wet with something Harry can only imagine.
Wasting no time, he rushes up to the boy’s side and begins to undo his ankles, trying to solve the knots as quickly as possible.
“Oh, my God, I’ll get you out of here, I promise,” Harry assures the boy frantically, who watches Harry work with such delight, and their eyes meet for a fraction of a second when Harry looks up.
Blue eyes dance with blue eyes, and something explodes in Harry’s heart.
After a while, Harry finally gets to untying the cloth around his mouth, and when he does, the boy sighs deeply and regain control of his jaw once again.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy exclaims repeatedly as Harry sets the cloth down on the floor.
“What’s happened to you? What’s your name?” Harry asks him concernedly, reaching his hands up to inspect the handcuff.
“Dougie,” the boy replies, looking up at Harry earnestly as he twists and turns the metal as delicately as possible. Seeing his struggling features, Dougie adds in to help, “And the key’s on the floor behind you. That son of a bitch threw it right there before he left.”
But Harry shakes his head and begins to rummage for the key in his pocket. Dougie watches him bemusedly. “We all use the same handcuffs, so we all have the key.”
Retrieving the key, Harry set off to work at once, and in two seconds flat, Dougie’s hands flop down on the bed after a metallic click.
“See? It’s-” Harry begins, but before he can finish, Dougie’s arms come around his neck, and he presses himself against the other man in gratitude.
“You saved my life,” Dougie whispers, tightening his grip, not caring if he’s hurting him or not. But the grip isn’t tight enough to be remotely painful, and Harry finds himself returning the action not a moment later. It makes him feel good to know that he’s saved someone’s life. This is why he took up the job to begin with, for the moments like these.
“You’re welcome,” Harry says, and the two stay in the same position for a while, Harry just listening to Dougie’s breathing, their heartbeats intermingling as one.
Soon enough, the two part, and Dougie sits uncomfortably on the bed, wincing in pain when his behind touched the mattress.
“You alright?” Harry asks, and Dougie shakes his head.
“No, I can’t walk,” Dougie says with his brows knitted together. “It hurts to even sit down.”
“Oh, well, have you got a place near here? I can carry you there.”
Dougie smiles and shakes his head once again.
“My place is quite a ways from here,” he says, getting to his knees and ignoring the shooting pain erupting from each bruise running down the length of his thighs.
“Oh,” Harry says, and he scratches his head with his index finger as he thinks of what he can possibly do to help him.
As Harry thinks, Dougie watches him with a faint smile, but it disappears when an expression of recognition washes over his reddened face. “You said earlier you use the same handcuffs.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Harry obliges to answer, trying to see what the boy is getting at.
“Then that means you work with him? In the police?”
Harry nods his head. “That’s right.”
Dougie leans his head close to Harry, who watches him with raised eyebrows, confusion coating every inch of his face.
“Then you can send that wanker to jail, yeah?”
Harry smiles and nods, finally realizing his point. “Yeah, that I can definitely do.”
Dougie grins and sits back, wincing once again but hiding it in a wink. Harry smiles back.
“Just so you know, though,” Dougie says suddenly, his face grave, eyes looking down at the floor to his right. “I’m a rent boy. I gave him consent to pleasure himself with me in exchange for his money.”
Harry shoots Dougie a surprised look and opens his mouth to speak. But Dougie beats him to it and continues.
“But that man didn’t want my services. All he wanted was a piece of meat. He raped me, officer.”
Harry nods with his brows creased, and he runs a hand on Dougie’s face, tracing out the bruises and the cut on his lip with his fingers. Assault and rape are serious crimes, and it makes Harry smile to know that he can put men like McCormick, those heartless pigs who don’t know that “no” means “no”, behind bars.
Dougie watches him with sparkling eyes. “So, can you call your chief or something? So I can file a complaint?”
“Yeah, I can,” says Harry, nodding, and he sees Dougie’s face light up. “But not tonight.”
Dougie’s face deflates just as fast. “What? Why not?”
Harry chuckles and begins to take off his shirt. “You’re exhausted. That’s too much stress for someone in your condition.” He gives the garment to Dougie, who takes it with reluctance. “We can go to my place and get you cleaned up and your bruises tended to, and we can discuss your case when you feel up to it.”
Dougie looks at him in disbelief, but he begins to put on Harry’s shirt anyway. He can’t blame the boy; it is cold.
“Come on,” Harry says after Dougie manages to do the last button, and Harry scoops the boy up and carries him with his arms on his back and the backs of his knees, like a princess in one of those movies. Dougie’s arms reach up around Harry’s neck the next second to maintain his balance.
“You hungry?” Harry asks as they make their way to the car, and Dougie nods his head.
“Yeah, starving.”
“That’s good," Harry says, breaking into a smile. “You like ice cream?”
Author: russsel
Part: 1/1
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Poynter/Judd
Genre: AU
Summary: Dougie Poynter learns that those in charge of the public’s safety aren’t always what they make themselves out to be, and when he finds himself caught in the hands of one of them, he learns that not all of them are as bad as they seem.
A/N: This is what I get for listening to Marilyn Manson while writing. This has got to be the darkest fic I’ve written, and the most “edgy” for lack of a better word. Most hard hitting or something like that. It is a rape fic, so if that’s not your cup of tea, I suggest you don’t read it. But there’s a bit of fluff at the end, so that’ll probably take away from some of the darkness. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own McFly in any way.
Dougie Poynter’s customers never assault him.
Sure, some can be more aggressive than the others, sometimes to the point that his jaw starts to ache, feeling like it’s about to fall off, or that he won’t be able to sit down for a few hours, but they never go farther than a great, spine-tingling, animalistic fucking to sate that primal hunger for something to empty their juices into.
But that’s probably because they just don’t have the time. His rounds never exceed more than fifteen minutes, except for two exceptions stretching over an hour and a half, and most of them, after finishing with him, zip their trousers back up and slip on their rings, telling him with a wink that they don’t want their wives to “worry.” He doesn’t mind, and he’s already counting the notes fanned out in his hand the moment they open the door to leave.
Just as they never assault him, he never complains. He takes everything with a smile, a groan, a squeal. Anything to make his customers feel like they’re doing him like they’re high-end porn stars. Taking everything into consideration, it’s really Dougie who’s the star. It takes prowess and a pretty face to be able to take dicks, size ranging from a large banana to a baseball club, up his mouth and arse and still be able to smile and fake satisfaction whenever the situation calls for it.
But this time’s different. The man’s already pulling him through the door to the dirty motel room, the cheapest they could find in such short notice, with a mighty grip on his wrist, and it’s all Dougie can do not to yank his arm away and tell him, “Look, I’m not into this sort of stuff.”
Instead, he just bites his bottom lip and lets the man take him inside, each step syncing with his erratic heartbeat.
Dougie never complains.
The door shuts closed and every trace of light disappears. Before he can ask the man to flip the switch on, he’s thrown onto the bed at the center of the room in one great swing. He hears the man chuckle, a deep, dark chuckle that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stick up and sends a shiver down his spine, and not a second later, he can hear the rubbing of leather and the clinking of metal.
His heart beats faster.
He uses the darkness to cover his fear, as well as to take this chance to rub his wrist tenderly. He winces at the slight touch, however, and it’s then that he realizes that this man is really strong. And there’s absolutely no way to barge his way out through his tremendous bulk.
It’s then that he feels scared for his life.
He knows nothing about the man, and for all he knows, he could be a dangerous psychopath who’s escaped from an asylum. Or a serial killer, and Dougie’s lucky enough to be his next victim.
He’s been robbed of his ability to see for a while now, and with every second that passes, his heart beat picks up more speed, and he feels like if he looks down, he’ll see his heart beating through his skin.
In that moment, he tells himself it’s not worth it, not worth getting himself killed over.
Taking a moment to sigh deeply, and to prepare himself for a quick getaway, he inches over the scratchy sheets until he can feel, with the tips of his fingers, the edge of the bed. Locating it, he moves over one more time and hops off, lightly landing on his feet and crouching down catlike on the rug. With his eyes getting accustomed to the darkness, he surveys the room in one quick sweep, and he finds the man standing in the middle, his nose pointing right at the door, playing with something that Dougie can’t really make out. And he doesn’t try to.
Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, he begins to crawl, thinking that if he’s quiet enough, he can scuttle past him without being detected. But he forgets one thing.
If he can see in the dark, then naturally, the man can as well.
And so he does, and the moment Dougie realizes this, the fluorescent light bulb flashes brightly, flooding the room with blinding light, and Dougie sacrifices his balance to cover his eyes.
Falling on his stomach with a soft “oomf,” he watches helplessly as the man advances with a grin on his face, twirling a handcuff around a finger and gripping a police baton so hard, Dougie can see veins ripping through the skin of his wrist.
Without warning, the man lunges forward, and painfully slams his palm on Dougie’s face before he can utter a pathetic cry for help.
Officer Harry Judd is on his nightly patrol through the streets when he hears the chief’s voice blaring through his walkie-talkie, and he nearly jams his foot on the gas pedal in surprise.
“Officer Judd here,” Harry says hurriedly, steering himself back on the lane and turning down the volume of the device by twisting the little black knob at the top.
“McCormick hasn’t showed up today, so you have to cover his shift tonight,” says the chief, and Harry groans loudly before he can stop himself.
He’s been readying himself to go home for the most part of his patrol, the promise of the untouched box of ice cream in his freezer and his favorite show playing on the television too strong to ignore, and he’s exhausted. If anything went down in one of these streets, he probably wouldn’t be able to muster enough energy to try and stop it. And then he’ll get blamed for it, which would undoubtedly end in his losing his badge.
He doesn’t want to lose his badge.
“Copy that,” he tells the chief in a depressed tone, not having any alternatives, and he turns off his walkie-talkie before the chief can say anything else.
If McCormick shows up tomorrow, he’ll kill him.
Turning on the radio, he twists the dial to find a good station. A few seconds later, he finds one, and rolling down his window and sticking his arm out to tap his palm on the side of the car to the rhythm of the song, he sighs and begins to sling along.
It’s going to be a long night.
Dougie opens his eyes to slits.
He sees the room just as it was before he passed out, except for the pile of discarded clothes sitting near the door. He has a fleeting thought of the garments being familiar, and when he moves his head to look down, he figures out why.
He’s completely naked, and he sees the crown of the man’s head pointing right at him, his attention focused on trying down Dougie’s last ankle to the foot of the bed.
His heart jumps into overdrive when the man lifts his head up and locks eyes with him.
Dougie doesn’t need to look to know he’s been cuffed to the grilled, wooden headboard. He can feel the cold metal stinging his skin; the object is wound too tight on his wrists, and the prior abuse on one of them isn’t making matters any better.
He lets out a whimper just as the man stands up and rubs his hands together in delight.
He tries to scream, but an item of clothing is tied securely around his head through his mouth, and the louder he screams, the more his body hurts, and the more the man, now kneeling on the bed and undoing hi belt, laughs.
And so he does the only thing he can think of, the only thing he can do.
He cries.
Harry stops in front of a convenience store and peers through the automated glass doors inside. He sees people walking past, pushing shopping trolleys and carrying baskets overflowing with food and whatever else, and he wonders just how many people are still awake at this time of the hour.
He instinctively looks at the time in the rectangular screen beside the radio dial. The neon green numbers read 11:37. He sighs, backs up a few feet, and parks around the curb.
If he can’t have his ice cream in his cozy home, he’ll just have to recreate it in his stuffy cop car. It won’t be the same, he knows, and he knows he’ll be just as tired as he has been all night long, but at least it can busy him until his-McCormick’s shift ends.
He gets out of the car, pats his back pocket for his wallet, smiles faintly when he feels the bulge, and trudges inside the store.
Dougie bites the cloth around his mouth so hard, his teeth threaten to break, as the man shoves the police baton deeper inside of him. The man is obviously taking such pleasure in doing this, because when Dougie squeals in pain, the piece of ebony-painted wood nearly splitting him in half, the man laughs and pushes deeper and deeper, pressing his prickly face against Dougie’s cheeks, reddened and damp from all his crying as Dougie tries to turn his head the other way. When he does this, however, the man lifts his head up from Dougie’s, and with his meaty hand, smacks him across the face with one massive blow, and the impact makes Dougie’s neck crick.
His cheek is assaulted by a storm of needles, pricking him relentlessly until a red spot the shape of the man’s palm spreads across the rosy surface.
“Doon’t ye fookin’ turn away froom me,” the man says in his thick accent, and the sharpness in his voice unnerves Dougie like never before. At once, he stops trying to claw his way out of the shackles and his whole body tenses.
Slowly, he feels the baton slide out from inside him, and he winces at the stinging sensation as his muscles try to revert back to their original places. He’s never felt this way before, from any of his customers, and the bruises along his body make everything feel a thousand times worse.
He watches the man run his hand through his sweat-drenched copper hair in a disgruntled way and he tries to fight back a sob. The deep sigh that comes next doesn’t belong to him, and it makes him want to cry some more.
He’s not satisfied yet, Dougie can see it in his eyes, and he doesn’t know how far-or how long-it would take for him to obtain his fill.
The metallic glint in the man’s steel-blue eyes makes Dougie wriggle like a fish caught in a line.
He’s scared.
He just wants to go home.
Harry emerges from the double doors carrying a plastic bag filled with food. There’s an ice cream box, a bag of crisps, half a dozen doughnuts in various assortments, and two bottles of chilled iced tea.
He nods a pleasant greeting at a passerby before walking to his car. He opens the door, places the bag on the passenger’s seat, and slides inside.
He scratches his head before peering through the bag, debating to himself what to eat first and where to eat it. He finally settles with the doughnuts, and, lifting up the box and flipping open the lid, he takes one filled with jelly, and takes a huge chunk before sticking the key in the ignition.
Dougie groans with each thrust, the man’s hard breathing uncomfortable in his ears, the hair on his chest grinding Dougie’s soft, fragile skin, tainted by a handful of bruises for refusing to offer up his arse “like a good, little whore that ye are,” the sensation no different from that of sandpaper.
The man is gripping Dougie’s forearms in a vicegrip, effectively slowing his blood circulation, and right now, they feel cold, with yet more needles puncturing each and every inch of his skin.
When he tries to move his fingers, nothing happens.
“Fookin’ great arse ye got there, ye fookin’ whore,” the man whispers in Dougie’s ears, deep and raspy, like running a cactus plant up and down his neck, as he goes stronger, harder, faster, and Dougie’s breathing is labored enough as it is. The weight pressing down on him is too much to handle.
He feels like he’ll pass out again, and he wonders when it will end.
Harry finishes his fifth doughnut before venturing to pop the ice cream box open and marvel at the treasure inside. With his other hand, he reaches inside the bag for the plastic spoon, and when he finds it, he can feel his toes tingling. Ice cream is his absolute favorite thing in the world, especially chocolate-vanilla swirl, and whenever he sees a box, his toes just curl inward uncontrollably.
Dougie’s toes curl as the man sits up and releases his arms, never pulling out of him or stopping his gyrating motions, determined to empty himself inside the helpless boy.
Dougie ventures to look at his arm, and his stomach churns when sees a splash of dark purple mixed with green plastered on both of his arms. The previously restricted flow of blood immediately begin making up for lost time, and Dougie feels his heart beating like never before, and little by little he begins to feel his hands again.
But the man isn’t done yet.
He’s become more aggressive than before, and he props himself on his knees, gripping Dougie’s hips so hard, his nails almost draw blood, lifting the boy up despite the bondage on his ankles limiting his area of movement.
Dougie bites the cloth harder.
“Come on, flex that fookin’ arse fer me,” the man demands in a pained whisper, his facial features contorted in sexual agony, desperately wanting to shoot.
Dougie doesn’t give him the satisfaction and tries to relax despite the crushing pressure on his hips, but all it does is get him another smack across the other cheek, and this time, something inside his mouth has sprung a leak. The next second, he feels a trail of something warm dripping from the corners of his mouth like an open faucet, and when he looks down, he sees the crimson line traveling around the contours of his collarbone and around his chest.
It’s then that he feels his face swelling.
Halfway through his box of ice cream, propped between his legs, chilling his groin uncomfortably but disregarding it to the best of his abilities, Harry sees a cop car parked a few ways from him.
A car from his division.
He eyes the vehicle suspiciously as he replaces the lid on the ice cream. There are only two policemen patrolling the area tonight: him and Officer Jones, and he’s received the message that Danny is patrolling the other end of the area.
Curiosity sparked, he stalks closer to the other car and inspects its license plate.
That’s when he realizes he’s looking at McCormick’s car.
Anger boiling inside him, Harry parks his car and bursts out through the door, already going through in his mind the things he’ll say to him.
In his preparation, he looks around. The area is dark, lit only by a couple of streetlamps on both sides of the road, one of them flickering distractedly. Beside him is a motel, its massive sign missing some fluorescence and a few needing repairs. One of those sleazy motels, he reckons, where johns get their services from prostitutes without the risk of getting caught, as well as an offer of a comfortable bed to do their business in.
He shakes his head disapprovingly.
How people can have sex without love in the equation, he’ll never know. But what he does know is that if he’s wound up enough, he’ll order a raid. See how many people hide in these rooms.
Something pops in his head, however, and he turns back to McCormick’s car.
He wonders what on Earth he could be doing in such a place in this time of the night.
The man slaps Dougie’s arse after unloading into him, and Dougie whimpers as he feels the contents sliding out, soiling the insides of his thighs and the mattress beneath him.
“Great fookin’ time, ye fookin’ whore,” the man says devilishly, retrieving his trousers and slipping them on, keeping his damp dick out the unzipped fly to avoid wetting the fabric and leaving evidence, and Dougie tries to look away, up at the ceiling. The man only laughs.
“Fine, ignore me, ye fookin’ piece of shit,” the man says as he walks over and grabs Dougie’s shirt. With it, he wipes his dick, rolling the remnants of his semen into the garment, stroking it a few times to rid himself completely of the fluid. After he’s done, he compresses the shirt into a ball and throws it at Dougie. The fabric fans open in mid-flight, and half of the wetted part catches Dougie’s face, who waves his head as hard as he can to fling it away.
The man thinks this hilarious, and he breaks out in a fit of hearty laughter. It makes Dougie want to throw up.
“If I see ye again walkin’ them streets offerin’ to take it up yer sweet arse, I’ll come back fer ye,” the man threatens, and it makes Dougie’s blood run cold in dread. He unwillingly turns his head to the man, who’s pinning something to the front of his shirt. Something shiny, reflecting the fluorescent light directly into one of his eyes.
They widen when he realizes what it is.
A police badge.
This man is a police officer, and he’s just raped Dougie regardless of the law. This revelation makes him more scared than ever. If this man is a working policeman, then who else can he turn to?
“Like it, don’t ye?” the man asks, presenting the badge proudly as though it were a medal of honor.
Dougie doesn’t do anything.
“I’ll jus’ see ye around, then, yeah? Make sure ye warm up that arse for me.” With a wink, the man throws a key across the floor, turns the rusty knob, and lets himself out with a faint chuckle.
Dougie’s eyes are planted on the key, and he wonders how he’ll ever make it out of there.
“McCormick?” Harry asks as he sees the copper-haired man walking with his hands in his pocket from one of the motel rooms.
The man raises his head, peers through the darkness in a squint, and perks his brows when he recognizes Harry.
“Oh, hello there, Judd,” he greets Harry, and he can hear the sense of urgency in his voice.
Harry doesn’t return the greeting. “What’re you doing out here in the middle of the night when it’s supposed to be your shift?” he snaps angrily, and McCormick chuckles uneasily, already trying to inch past Harry to get to his car.
“Oh, that,” McCormick notes, suddenly realizing. “Joost wanted an early vacation, ye know? Chief’d never grant me that leave, so I decided to do it on me own, yeah?”
“So why there?” Harry persists, not buying the other man’s story.
“Personal reasons,” was all McCormick says, and with that, he fishes his car key from his pocket and makes for his car.
“If you won’t tell me, I’m going to go tell the chief,” Harry threatens, and McCormick stops in his tracks.
“I’m not in the fookin’ mood, Judd, so don’t fookin’ cross me,” McCormick says scathingly, and the rasp in his voice makes the hairs at the back of Harry’s neck stand up on end. But he stands his ground, nonetheless, and decides to challenge him further.
“With that attitude, I will most definitely will.”
McCormick turns his head to look at Harry over his shoulder with a scowl. “Then do it, ye fookin’ pussy. I don’t care what ye or the chief thinks. Just fookin’ leave me alone if ye still want yer teeth attached to yer fookin’ mouth.”
Not saying another word, McCormick storms off into his car and drives off, leaving a cloud of dust and a livid Harry in his wake.
Making a mental note to tell the chief everything after he checks what McCormick has been up to, he makes his way to the room.
Dougie has stopped trying to remove the handcuffs.
He’s just too exhausted and too pained to even move a muscle. But even staying still is hurting him, and though the more he struggles, the more painful the bruises feel, the more he stays still, the more he feels his entire body throbbing, screaming in agony.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Just then, as he’s about to try once again to wriggle his wrists out, the door slowly opens, and his entire body stiffens.
What if it’s him again?
He cranes his head to look, and he feels as though a large weight has just been lifted from his chest when he sees another man poking his head in.
“Oh, my God,” Harry says under his breath when he sees the naked boy bound on the bed. Handcuffs encircle his wrists, a band of purple bruises on each beneath the metal, a piece of cloth tied around his mouth, and socks tying his feet down at the foot of the bed. More bruises line his forearms, his stomach, and his thighs, and the area beneath him is wet with something Harry can only imagine.
Wasting no time, he rushes up to the boy’s side and begins to undo his ankles, trying to solve the knots as quickly as possible.
“Oh, my God, I’ll get you out of here, I promise,” Harry assures the boy frantically, who watches Harry work with such delight, and their eyes meet for a fraction of a second when Harry looks up.
Blue eyes dance with blue eyes, and something explodes in Harry’s heart.
After a while, Harry finally gets to untying the cloth around his mouth, and when he does, the boy sighs deeply and regain control of his jaw once again.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy exclaims repeatedly as Harry sets the cloth down on the floor.
“What’s happened to you? What’s your name?” Harry asks him concernedly, reaching his hands up to inspect the handcuff.
“Dougie,” the boy replies, looking up at Harry earnestly as he twists and turns the metal as delicately as possible. Seeing his struggling features, Dougie adds in to help, “And the key’s on the floor behind you. That son of a bitch threw it right there before he left.”
But Harry shakes his head and begins to rummage for the key in his pocket. Dougie watches him bemusedly. “We all use the same handcuffs, so we all have the key.”
Retrieving the key, Harry set off to work at once, and in two seconds flat, Dougie’s hands flop down on the bed after a metallic click.
“See? It’s-” Harry begins, but before he can finish, Dougie’s arms come around his neck, and he presses himself against the other man in gratitude.
“You saved my life,” Dougie whispers, tightening his grip, not caring if he’s hurting him or not. But the grip isn’t tight enough to be remotely painful, and Harry finds himself returning the action not a moment later. It makes him feel good to know that he’s saved someone’s life. This is why he took up the job to begin with, for the moments like these.
“You’re welcome,” Harry says, and the two stay in the same position for a while, Harry just listening to Dougie’s breathing, their heartbeats intermingling as one.
Soon enough, the two part, and Dougie sits uncomfortably on the bed, wincing in pain when his behind touched the mattress.
“You alright?” Harry asks, and Dougie shakes his head.
“No, I can’t walk,” Dougie says with his brows knitted together. “It hurts to even sit down.”
“Oh, well, have you got a place near here? I can carry you there.”
Dougie smiles and shakes his head once again.
“My place is quite a ways from here,” he says, getting to his knees and ignoring the shooting pain erupting from each bruise running down the length of his thighs.
“Oh,” Harry says, and he scratches his head with his index finger as he thinks of what he can possibly do to help him.
As Harry thinks, Dougie watches him with a faint smile, but it disappears when an expression of recognition washes over his reddened face. “You said earlier you use the same handcuffs.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Harry obliges to answer, trying to see what the boy is getting at.
“Then that means you work with him? In the police?”
Harry nods his head. “That’s right.”
Dougie leans his head close to Harry, who watches him with raised eyebrows, confusion coating every inch of his face.
“Then you can send that wanker to jail, yeah?”
Harry smiles and nods, finally realizing his point. “Yeah, that I can definitely do.”
Dougie grins and sits back, wincing once again but hiding it in a wink. Harry smiles back.
“Just so you know, though,” Dougie says suddenly, his face grave, eyes looking down at the floor to his right. “I’m a rent boy. I gave him consent to pleasure himself with me in exchange for his money.”
Harry shoots Dougie a surprised look and opens his mouth to speak. But Dougie beats him to it and continues.
“But that man didn’t want my services. All he wanted was a piece of meat. He raped me, officer.”
Harry nods with his brows creased, and he runs a hand on Dougie’s face, tracing out the bruises and the cut on his lip with his fingers. Assault and rape are serious crimes, and it makes Harry smile to know that he can put men like McCormick, those heartless pigs who don’t know that “no” means “no”, behind bars.
Dougie watches him with sparkling eyes. “So, can you call your chief or something? So I can file a complaint?”
“Yeah, I can,” says Harry, nodding, and he sees Dougie’s face light up. “But not tonight.”
Dougie’s face deflates just as fast. “What? Why not?”
Harry chuckles and begins to take off his shirt. “You’re exhausted. That’s too much stress for someone in your condition.” He gives the garment to Dougie, who takes it with reluctance. “We can go to my place and get you cleaned up and your bruises tended to, and we can discuss your case when you feel up to it.”
Dougie looks at him in disbelief, but he begins to put on Harry’s shirt anyway. He can’t blame the boy; it is cold.
“Come on,” Harry says after Dougie manages to do the last button, and Harry scoops the boy up and carries him with his arms on his back and the backs of his knees, like a princess in one of those movies. Dougie’s arms reach up around Harry’s neck the next second to maintain his balance.
“You hungry?” Harry asks as they make their way to the car, and Dougie nods his head.
“Yeah, starving.”
“That’s good," Harry says, breaking into a smile. “You like ice cream?”