The Downfall of Nate Ramsey

By Kit Fortier (kitfortier@gmail.com)

Based on the characters and concept by Jasper Cooper © 2019

DISCLAIMER: This story is a gay fantasy; no part of it is based in fact, and none of the characters are intended to resemble real persons. This story chronicles the humiliating ordeals an 18-year-old high school senior is unwillingly subjected to. Some of these humiliations have a strong sexual component. If you are underage, or do not want to read about such matters, you should leave this webpage at once. Assuming you do not fall into either category (you should not have made it this far if you did), I bid you: onward!

 

To our good friend, J. Forrester, for being a help beyond measure, and to the readers who kept holding out hope the story would have a true end.

 

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EPILOGUE: "Ride `em hard and put `em up wet"

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Christmas Day, 10 Years Later...

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Jason should have cancelled the landline installation. Or at least, just kept one phone in the whole house instead of having one in the hall outside the master bedroom, and one in the boys' bedroom. The landline wasn't for Jason or Gwen's safety. It was there for the twins. If there was an emergency in the house, he wanted to be sure 9-1-1 could track their location easily, unlike with a mobile phone, which would take some time to triangulate in a life or death situation.

But that was the least of his problems at the moment.

It wasn't Jessie calling. She usually reserved her calls to the daytime as not to spoil her nephews' sleeping schedule. Jason had come back to speaking terms with her eventually. Despite the niggling idea that had Jessie simply told him the whole truth—how she stalked after Nate, threatening to tell the whole school about their escapades, about how Nate coerced her into silence with photographic proof of her complicité in their ill-advised tryst, Jason believed he wouldn't have been involved with the whole mess. He likely would have talked Wes down, instead of pushing him forward with their plot to humiliate the then asshole Boy-Wonder.

Though, if there was one thing that he learned in therapy sessions in the aftermath, only he was really accountable for his own actions. Blaming others wouldn't change the situation one bit. Jason and the rest of the team did wrong, and they had to accept that.

As for Jason's youngest sister, Julie, now eighteen, she was dealing with typical high school senior fare, much to the dismay of her brother, and she only called if she needed something important. Like her big sister, she had the sense not to call after dinner for the sake of keeping her nephews from waking up. But the rarity of her calls wasn't because she was spoiled.

She just didn't know how to relate with someone who once called a prison cell home.

No, the only one to call at ungodly hours at random times, maybe once or twice every month or so, was his best friend who he called "brother", despite fate conspiring to not make that bond a legal reality.

Jason heard his baby boys crying from their cribs. He sighed, heaving his blanket off his legs. Gwen, his wife and mother to his children, hadn't even turned to face him when she addressed him.

"Jase, let it go. You know who it is. It's two in the morning, and he woke the babies!" she hissed angrily.

"I got this, hon. I'll get the boys settled. Go back to sleep, okay?" Jason spoke with resignation. He didn't want to fight, but he wasn't about to turn his back on his best friend-brother, either.

Gwen looked over her shoulder. When she saw the pained look in her husband's eyes, she knew better than to fight. It was one of the reasons she loved him, even if it annoyed the crap out of her every now and then.

"Just... be careful," she said, turning back and settling in again.

Jason padded into the boys' room and picked up the phone.

"Jase," a man's voice groaned tearfully.

"Hey bro. What's up?" Jason asked quietly. "You weren't at work the day before yesterday. You alright?"

Jason already knew the answer to that. He worked as an area supervisor for Wes's brother's construction business, circumventing any issues other employers would have in hiring a convicted felon. With Griff Stanford's approval, he hired Wes on as his assistant—though Jason was pretty mum on just how much work he actually did himself in Wes' many absences; absences due to hangovers, injuries from being beaten up, or hangovers with injuries from being beaten up. Jason provided the perfect cover, though. And since the only person he answered to was Griff, no one overtly attempted to throw Wes out on his ear. Jason was sure of that—it wasn't likely Griff wanted to see his little brother out on the street, if Wes ever let himself be in the same room with his older brother at any time.

Jason lifted little Lee to his chest, rocking him as the little guy liked to be rocked. Greg was much easier, considerably less fussy. They shared a dynamic that Jason and Wes shared, with his level-headedness and Wes's emotions getting the better of him. With the phone tucked to his ear on his shoulder, Jason rocked his boys back to sleep. Lee gave out one last cry before he fell under his father's swaying spell.

"Was that... was that little Wesley?" the man asked.

Jason smiled. "Yeah. Lee loves his papa."

"I know," a shuddering sigh. "His papa is a really good guy."

Jason knew in his heart what was coming next. He rarely got calls like these unless there was trouble. Jason waited for what he knew was coming. Wes always tried to lead with good news of some kind before bad.

"Devlin O'Rourke and Bobby Rawlins were out Christmas shopping together," Wes said. He sounded only partly lucid. Sobriety must have been lurking in the periphery. "I can't—can't believe they're still together," he hiccupped.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" Jason said with quiet sincerity.

"Yeah," Wes sighed. "I'm glad he kept them out of the trial."

He. Nate. Jason swallowed the bitter pill of his anger. There had been enough hatred to go around, and that hatred would do him no further good, especially with a family to look after. A family which included the man at the other end of the line. He couldn't hate the guy for turning them in—what they did was well-beyond justifiable by any means, and the consequences could have been much worse.

Nate truly wasn't the monster in this scenario. If it wasn't for his plea for leniency, the lot of them would still be behind bars.

"You asked him to," Jason said. "And he kept his word."

Wes let out a choked sob. "I'm... I got... I got mugged. Can you pick me up? I don't have... I don't have any money." The stuttering voice on the other end of the line broke. Jason knew the man was crying.

"Wes," Jason said soothingly. "Hey, hey man. I'll be right there." He pulled out his cellphone and opened up his GPS app. "Where are you?"

"Tell Gwen I'm so sorry," Wes cried. "I'm such a shit, I'm sorry."

"Wes," Jason said, calmly interrupting Wes's apology. "Tell me where you are, okay? I'll come get you."

*** *** *** *** ***

Jason drove up to a dark alley behind a dank hole in the wall dive bar called "The Industrial". He waited in his car until he saw the familiar silhouette of his best friend closing in. Wes walked around the front of the car. What Jason saw lit up by headlights broke his heart. It always did. Ten years ago, Wes had a life. He was healthy, strong even. He filled out everything he wore with the confidence and physique of a fitness model.

The Wes before him was far removed from that bright-eyed eighteen year old. After ten years, Wes had gone from successful hot shot kid with the world in his hands to a self-destructing father of an almost two year old son who actively sought out abusive "lovers", for lack of a better word, in Jason's estimation. Drinking and receiving beatings before, during, or after sexual encounters were his only reason for living, and for Wes, it wasn't enough of a punishment—despite his criminal conviction. This Wes had seen eight years of prison, and actually believed in his heart and soul that he deserved more, not less, in any way that fate decided to mete it out to him. He would have had more, but he was a model prisoner, as well as the recipient of a reprieve from a few years when the blackmail charges were removed.

Six years for blackmail, six years for rape. On his eighth year inside, his sentence was reduced by three years for evidence that he had not, in fact, coerced a teammate to participate in Nate's degradation. Ethan's testimony had been thrown out in a strange reconsideration by the judge. Much of what Ethan said put Wes at the forefront of the criminal actions. After Ethan's testimony had been thrown out, and after being given a year off his sentence for good behavior, Wes left prison a free, "rehabilitated" man.

If only prison worked that way. It usually just made things worse before they got better—if they got better at all.

Ethan blamed Wes for forcing him into participating in the hazing, knowing full well Wes never did anything of the sort. Everyone had a say in their own participation. Some, like Devlin, backed out. The rest were all in, in one way or another. Ethan sold out everyone he could, though, to help bring his own potential punishments to a minimum.

Owen hadn't made it to court. After Jason's dad worked on the Montrose boy in the ER, he remained in a vegetative state for a few weeks. The SUV that hit him had sent him flying, breaking ribs, an arm, a collarbone, and a femur beneath his own bodyweight crashing down on the asphalt. He spent two months in the hospital, during which the prosecutors' investigators took all the time they needed to dig into the infamous laptop and compile all the evidence against the boys. A week after his second month, Owen suffered a bout of pneumonia as a result of his compromised body and immune system. He held on for a couple of weeks, and his parents hoped he would push through. But on the third week, his lungs gave out, and he was gone. The Montroses buried him on the family farm a month before the trials began.

His funeral was attended by immediate family. Out of all Owen's teammates, only Wes showed, with Jason in tow, more for Wes's support than respecting the boy who'd gone in the ground. Melanie showed, but she hung back and avoided talking to the Montroses altogether.

Coach Reilly sent a card. It said simply, "Our condolences."

Owen escaped justice, but at a heavy and irrevocable price.

His parents didn't bury him with a tombstone. They planted an oak sapling over his remains instead. They had no words to write on a grave marker for a boy who caused so much pain for a community at large. The public hadn't seen what Owen wanted them to see. They saw a horrible young man nearly completely destroy another in a manner beyond despicable. Public opinion soured on Owen and his family. There was so much outrage coming the Montroses' way that they inevitably gave up trying to fight for their son's non-existent dignity, sold the farm and quietly moved away. But justice would trail them in the form of a civil lawsuit put in motion by Mr. Mitchell Ramsey not long after the trial for the team had ended.

Jason watched the guilt of Owen's death eat at Wes—yet another thing his possible intervention could have prevented. It was Wes's habit where this messy, vicious, utterly depraved affair was concerned—to blame everything on himself.

A couple weeks later, the boys were all arrested on rape charges, as well as blackmail. They were held in jail over a weekend, and their arraignment hearings held the Monday after.

Drew was charged with felony possession of obscene material with the intent to distribute, owing to his IT acumen and how it was employed in Nate's degradation and violation. It was through Drew's website that all the dozens of videos and hundreds of photos were stored before he thought he deleted the cache of evidence. Ethan was the one to point the finger at Drew, too. And like the others, Drew had rape charges staring him in the face.

Jason sighed. Some memories simply won't fade, no matter how long one avoids them.

Wes opened the door and carefully settled in. He gingerly closed the door, clearly in physical pain and hangover induced pain.

The man was bleeding from his head. A crusty trail of blood had dripped through his shaggy, dirty blond hair, and came down over his eye, dripping and drying onto the top of his cheekbone. It made him look like he had a dashing pirate scar.

"I'm gonna take you to the ER, okay, Wes?"

Wes shook his head. "Don't, please," he cried softly. "I can't, they might call the cops, cuz of the mugging, and the cops will know I was drinking... It's just—It's just a small cut. Can't you fix it?"

"Wes," Jason's heartache for his friend's state of mind and being was immense. The beaten man didn't understand he wasn't a parolee anymore, but an ex-convict who served out his time and was released. There was no parole officer for him to report to, no authority he had to fear for being drunk or out late like an errant school kid. That hadn't been the case for the year of early release he'd had. How Wes managed to show up to his P.O. sober was a mystery to Jason.

With Wes in this state, Jason didn't want to bring him home for fear of upsetting his wife and kids, but he had very few options. He concluded he'd keep the man in the basement guest room. Gwen wouldn't mind that.

As much.

Jason ushered a bloody, sad drunk through his door. He cut across the living room to the door leading down, turning on the lights at the top of the stairs. He imagined his boys would probably be fighting for the space one day, running around like heathens when Wes's son, Archie (a slant off of Jason's last name, Archer) would come over. If Jason had any say, little Archie would play big brother to his sons, being about a year and a half older. He had considered adopting him to keep him close for Wes, but Archie's mom, Alys, was considerably well-off on her own, and she was more patient and understanding of Wes's condition than Jason would have expected.

On days when Wes was more sober and lucid, he told Jason he couldn't bear to see his baby boy for fear that he might hurt him, just like how he hurts everyone he loves.

Those would be hard days for the would-be-brothers.

Jason walked Wes to a wooden chair and made him sit. He went into the guest bathroom and pulled out a box of bandages from behind the mirror. He grabbed a couple of wash cloths and ran the water in the sink to warm up the flow.

When the water was warm, Jason pulled the stopper so the sink would fill. When it was full, he leaned out the door.

"Wanna take off your shirt, bro? I saw it had some bloodstains on the front, too."

Wes hadn't moved. He stared at the floor.

"Wes?" Jason cut off the water. He walked out into the semi-lit room and stood in front of Wes. "Come on, man. I just want to make sure you weren't injured elsewhere."

When Wes didn't reply, Jason went ahead and did it for him. He took off Wes's dingy, thin overcoat and laid it on the bed nearby. He pulled up the faded Henley his friend wore and stifled a gasp and the press of sadness in his eyes when he saw his friend's emaciated, bruised form. Even in the low light, Jason could see the angry, discolored blotches.

"Oh man... Wes—what the hell?" Jason took in the sallow skin randomly dotted with fist-sized bruises on his midsection, choke bruises on his neck, grip bruises on his arms that almost disguised the tattoos those arms carried. One arm featured a strand of barbed wire wrapped around it eight times. The other had the Biblical notation, Isaiah 13:11 tattooed to look like an angry cattle brand running up and down the length of his forearm. Jason had to look it up when he took Wes to have that tattoo done shortly after he left prison.

"And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogancy of the proud to cease, and I will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible."

It was a fitting verse from a book Jason hadn't read from in a long time. For the arrogance and unjustified pride the guys had in doing the things they did, they were definitely brought low in return. The barbed wire tattoo was one he sought out on the inside, with each wrap signifying a year he spent behind bars. Jason, himself, wore a tattoo that he had touched up while Wes was having his Bible verse put on him. It was four wraps of barbed wire. He got it a couple of months after he was released in a drunken moment of coping badly when he learned Wes had been bitched out in prison. Jason's P.O. raised an eyebrow at him for the tattoo and the mild inebriation that night, but fortunately nothing came of it. The P.O. figured the tattoo would be punishment enough.

The bruises on Jason's best friend were violent and numerous, and of many colors. Some newly formed. Jason guessed those were part of the mugging. The others were not as vivid, but definitely more recent.

"Wes—goddamnit, we gotta find a way to protect you from yourself," Jason half-cried, half-hissed. He wanted to scream at the man, but screaming would only wake his family, and it would definitely give Gwen a reason to intervene on Jason's behalf, not Wes.

"He said he'd take me back to his place," Wes said to the floor.

"He?"

"Some guy I met. Big guy. Big hands. Knuckles like he'd hit the bag barehanded. He said to meet him in the alley. I... I knew this would happen. Like I knew the last time I went and got hurt, it was because I paid a guy from a gym to fuck me. I needed it hard and rough. That was my Christmas present to myself." Wes touched his fingertips to the bruises on his neck.

Jason wanted to grab his dearest friend by the shoulders and shake him silly.

"You have got to stop punishing yourself, Wes! For god's sake, you're gonna get yourself killed!"

Wes hadn't responded for a moment, as if he was considering Jason's warning. "Then I'll have finally paid for the things I did," Wes said at last, with mournful finality.

Jason threw his hands in the air with a sob. He couldn't hug Wes to comfort him without causing him pain, that he knew. Nor could he hold him to slap some sense into him.

"You've paid enough, man. You were in the longest. And all this," Jason motioned over Wes's body, "is just torture for torture's sake. You've learned your lesson, Wes. You've got to forgive yourself!"

A sad smile broke out on Wes's haggard face. "I'm a monster, Jase. How can I forgive myself?"

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Jason had no answers. He figured he'd best move on and deal with the rest in the morning.

Rather than let him up off the chair, Jason figured to bring the treatment to Wes. This way, he wouldn't have to worry about the man falling over in a drunken stumble or an injury induced fog. He worked quickly, cleaning off Wes's face with the warm-watered washcloth, drying it off with the other. When he was done, Jason was happy to see the blood had come from a wound just south of Wes's hairline, and only needed a medium sized bandage to cover it. He applied an antimicrobial gel to-and-around the wound then placed a clean adhesive bandage on it.

"We'll clean up the rest later. Do you need to call anyone?" Jason asked.

Wes chuckled sadly. "Besides you? Or Griff? Mom." Wes shuddered. After a pause, he continued. "Your numbers are the only ones I remember. But... I can't call mom. I can't. She can't see me like this." The battered man moaned and sobbed quietly.

Jason knelt down and undid Wes's shoes. He peeled off the thin socks that likely were more harm than help in the slushy cold of Virginia in the winter. Since Wes's pants were stained with what smelled like dumpster effluvium, Jason helped him take those off revealing a pair of unassuming boxers.

At least Wes had some kind of relatively clean underwear on.

He'd launder Wes's pants and give him a few fresh pairs of thicker socks in the morning, along with a shirt not stained with blood. When Wes slipped into the bed, Jason pulled up the chair previously occupied by his unofficial brother and sat down next to the man in his guest bed.

"It's been ten years," Wes said. "I can't believe it." Jason looked at him, bleary eyed. It was over ten years by a few months, but he figured the holidays are the only thing Wes let himself remember.

"I know," Jason's voice was barely voiced. He could see Wes was momentarily lucid.

"What do you think he's doing?" Wes asked.

Jason looked at his friend. He clasped the Wes's thin, pale hand as a man would do for a brother. That's what they swore they'd be, even though their parents called off the engagement and went their separate ways, unwilling to get married due to the ugly controversies and scandal attached to their own sons.

And that was before the trial. The boys bore the brunt of the punishment, but their crimes' effects rippled out and touched a lot of people, mostly in a way that would require serious work to repair, if reparations could even be made.

The sheer number of students and non-students involved in the investigation was what stalled the trial. The prosecution wanted its best case, considering the far-reaching implications of several days of rape broadcast internationally, if not just regionally. That Nate came forward to press charges only urged the county prosecutors to bring the boy's tormentors to justice.

During the trial, it was revealed that Owen's laptop was everyone's undoing. After a warrant was issued the night of the game, the police went to Montrose Farm in the midnight hours and seized it from Owen's room after enduring the parents' sad tale of how their boy was a good boy who'd never harm anyone. Melanie's deposition along with Wes and Jason's corroborating statements said differently. Mr. Montrose practically barred the door to his son's room until he was distracted by a police officer heading into their bedroom. When the cops finally stepped into Owen's room, they found his recently used electro-torture anal plug, the nipple clamps, and the laptop, quietly playing the video from the championship game, on loop.

The menace had downloaded almost every file that the boys uploaded to Drew's website. The last time-stamped video was of Owen laughing and watching a very naked Nate squirm and scream and dance on his rack while his genitals and sensitive flesh were being shocked through the device in Owen's grip. A veritable dotted bee-line of digital footprints from all the videos Owen downloaded lead the police investigators to Wes, Jason, Troy, Drew, and Ethan, along with a number of other boys who added to the lewd, degrading collection. The footage on Owen's laptop was raw, unedited. Faces were clear as day, as were the voices of all involved. The prosecution called the photos and videos an orgy of evidence, an unfortunate but true name for the disgusting trove of footage Owen cultivated from his teammates. The investigator's find exonerated Nate as a willing participant in his own torment and cemented the fact that he was the unfortunate victim in the series of horrendous crimes committed on his person, literally.

From the videos, the cops had also pulled in the boys who bullied Nate while he was being passed around to the "care" of other teens. Nate interceded on their behalf, as per his pact with Wes to keep them out of things. What the kids did was embarrassing. What the team did was criminally insane. The kids' families were grateful. When they discovered that their sons would have been punished with 300 hours of community service (among other things), the parents enrolled their sons into programs that paralleled the would-be punishment in time and gravity. Some donated the savings their wayward boys earned over time to charities around town in Nate's name in gratitude that he hadn't dragged their families through the mud with the others. It was Nate's kindness that kept the town from going after him as a sexual deviant. Instead, there was more of an outpouring of support for the boy instead of the team that humiliated him.

As Wes had hoped, as he had asked Nate to do, the younger boys wouldn't have their lives ruined by a criminal conviction, misdemeanor or otherwise. But their families would make sure they would learn a constructive lesson about bullying and rape they would remember the rest of their lives. Wes was thankful Nate kept his word.

The parties who were involved but who were completely unaware of the extent of their involvement were absolved of any wrongdoing. That extended to Zack, Claude, and Spencer.

Jason remembered how Nate was vehemently adamant that Spencer should not be charged with anything. He explained Spencer's unwitting role in the videos and insisted he would not press charges against him. That Nate went to bat for Spencer told the judge all she needed to know to keep the man from facing the prosecutors.

Wes was charged and convicted.

Jason was charged with several counts of rape and was sentenced to five years in prison. He received an early release after four years inside.

Troy had a heavier sentence, similar to Wes. He was convicted and sentenced to prison for seven years--five years for rape, and two years blackmail, particularly for his part in coercing Zack to participate in violating Nate, and for his masterminding Nate's coercion when Spencer was brought in to unwittingly have sex with an unwilling party. No early release. He would have been eligible, if not for the fact he had been present in one too many sexual events in the course of his incarceration, both consented and violently unsolicited. The latter events got him misdemeanor tickets for fighting—and while he fought to defend himself, he was lumped in with the troublemakers. Those tickets stopped his early release from going forward.

In addition to rape charges, Drew was convicted of production of obscene materials with intent to distribute—a law particular to the State of Virginia. He received five years of incarceration for rape, and two for the obscene materials charge—which he might not have had if Ethan hadn't sold him up the river, too, in order to protect his worthless (though ironically wealthy) hide. Like Wes and Jason, he received early release.

Ethan's lawyers got his charges dropped from felony blackmail and rape to misdemeanor hazing immediately after the arraignment, effectively removing him from the trial except as a witness. Ethan managed to have the charges dropped in exchange for his testimony as a first person observer to Nate's humiliations. Ethan claimed he only orally sodomized Nate at Wes's coercion (another lie). He was sentenced to one year of probation, a $500 fine, and 1,000 hours of community service, which was talked down to three months of probation and a $10,000 fine, no community service.

Money bought many things, including freedom, and Ethan's family had plenty of it.

The kicker in the saga that was the trial: On the day of sentencing, after everyone on trial had been found guilty, Nate addressed the judge openly, before the defense, before the jury, before all the congregants in the courtroom. He asked that whatever punishment was to be meted out that day, let it be lenient. Let the boys he once called friends have a life. He wanted to show that he was not a monster—that even they deserved some modicum of mercy. "It's more than they gave me," Nate concluded.

It was worlds more than the team gave him, and they knew it.

Perhaps the true kicker was that the judge agreed to grant Nate's wish. The judge noted that she was moved by his sense of mercy. While she never said what their original sentences were, the judge earned many surprised gasps and titters from the congregants when she announced the punishments. The judge looked at each of the boys, one by one, dead on, and told them their sentences were a show of heart they did not deserve from a boy to whom they had been completely heartless.

In the aftermath of the trial, Ethan's family paid to change his last name and move from him the state. No one had heard from him since.

As Jason was the first out among the four who were imprisoned to be released, he was usually one of the first people the other men called to catch up. When Wes was released, Gwen quashed any more calls from Jason's convicted friends—though she could do little where Wes was concerned without upsetting Jason incredibly. While she blamed Wes for her husband going to prison, Jason would have none of it, saying they all were in it together, and their fates were their faults and theirs alone.

Jason focused on the man he called brother in his guest bed. He fixated on the gaunt hand he held in his own full, strong one. He remembered how his friend could palm a basketball in that hand. Now, with all the tremors brought on by alcohol and malnutrition, Jason doubted he could hold so much as a pencil for no longer than five seconds before dropping it. Wes now had a "runner's build"—a thinner frame with whip-cord musculature. Except when he left prison, the man had at least 30 pounds more muscle on him than he did now. Such were the ravages of his addictions.

"He's probably moved on with his life, Wes. Like you should. For your baby boy. Archie. For yourself." Jason squeezed Wes's hand gently.

Wes's eyes drifted shut. Fat drops of sadness rolled from the corners of his closed eyes and down the sides of his cheeks. A voiceless, breathless cry tore from Wes's mouth, followed by an outpouring of sorrow that carved up Jason's heart. His hand was warm in Wes's as the broken man squeezed as hard as he could, sobbing his grief.

"I'm sorry, Jase... I'm so sorry! I'm fuck—I'm a fuck... I'm a fuck up! You should just... I should just... I should go. I'm sorry!"

Wes tried to sit up, but Jason put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. Wes fought against Jason, but the truth was that months and months of piss-poor eating habits and rampant alcoholism reduced his strength significantly. Wes could only struggle for so long before he collapsed back on the bed, winded and miserable. The grief intensified from there.

Jason let his friend let go. When he was done, and on his way to a hopefully dreamless sleep, Jason spoke softly.

"You are my brother, Wesley Stanford. You named your son after me. One of my sons is named after you. I think that means that I will always, always be there for you. Now get some rest. We'll get you cleaned up in the morning, and we will visit your mom and your brother. They want to see you. They want to see you safe, okay?"

They were going to see him. Everyone would spend Christmas together, and after the new year, they would all drive Wes to rehab and check him in. They'd watch him, be there for him to see it through.

Hopefully it would take.

 

Hopefully he'd get better.

*** *** *** *** ***

The pale-skinned young man walked into an elevator of the apartment complex. It was, as Chuck Palahniuk called buildings like it, "a filing cabinet for widows and young professionals". The word "professional" was questionable in this instance.

The building itself had a rather glitzy veneer, but the inside was the very definition of cookie-cutter depressing. Each hallway looked like the one before, in stark white that looked a slight tint of bluish green due to the old school fluorescent lights the building managers apparently still employed. The carpets smelled of light mildew—like the carpet in a cheap motel.

Needing a pick-me-up, the young visitor to this deceptively depressing domicile thought back to earlier that morning. He and his fiancé had spent Christmas Eve wrapped up in each other's arms, on the floor, on the bed, in the shower, on the couch—pretty much anywhere there was room for two men to stand against or lie down on. The both of them were naked, sweaty, with the pale skinned young man draped across the darker, caramel colored one.

"You know, Rafael Reilly isn't a bad name," the one on top said.

"I guess. It's probably better than Finn Fuentes," Rafael replied, languishing in the heated scent of their all-nighter interlude and the warmth of the man on top of him.

"You're not making this easy, are you?" Finn laughed, sliding up to meet his man's mouth. The two shared a kiss and a smile.

"If it means that we get to go another round, I ain't makin' anything easy, mi querido guero." Rafael slid his arms over Finn's lower back—his warm, coppery tone was in stark contrast to Finn's alabaster skin. Finn gave his newly minted fiancé a bright smile as his face hovered over Rafael's.

"What's that look for?" Rafael asked.

"Just waiting on you to tell me what means," Finn said, planting a little kiss at the side of his handsome man's mouth.

"Didn't you take Spanish?"

"I did, but yo olvidé todo," Finn said fluidly. He then snickered.

My ass, you forgot everything, Rafe thought and sighed. "Dork. Mi, my." Finn was lucky he was so fucking adorable. Rafe's fiancé waited.

"My...?"

"You gotta kiss me for the next one. Can't get something for nothing, you know," Rafael smirked. Finn laughed and dipped his head down for a deep kiss. "Mmm, god you taste good."

"I think we've established that we like the way you and I taste to each other. What's the next word?" Finn asked impatiently, bouncing slightly on Rafael's center mass.

"Guero, pale. Light-skinned."

Finn blinked. He sank in and gave his man a slow, probing, toe-curling kiss. "Continue," he said.

"Querido, beloved." Rafe's deep brown eyes searched Finn's clear green ones. A tremulous smile slid across the pale-skinned man's lips.

"Mi querido guero," Finn repeated.

"Sí," Rafael whispered. Finn kissed his fiancé's chest.

Finn stared into Rafe's dark brown eyes and gave him a grin. "That sounds much sexier than `my pasty baby.'"

"Well, that shoe fits, too, yeah?" Rafe said with a snicker, which turned into a hiss when Finn pinched one of his nipples hard. "Pendejo," Rafe growled playfully. Finn laughed, soothing his fiancé's hurt with light licks and laving the offended flesh. He kissed Rafael's jaw and nestled in.

"I'm glad you asked me to marry you," Finn sighed.

"I'm glad you said yes," Rafael returned with a smile. Finn lowered his head to his husband-to-be's chest. A moment of silence fell between them before Finn spoke with his cheek pressed against Rafael's skin.

"I have to tell everyone! My parents, my brothers—They're gonna flip out!" Finn hesitated. "And also..." Finn felt his man's anxiety when Rafael held his breath.

"And also... who?" the man beneath asked.

"Rafe," Finn said. He sat up to get a good look at his man's face, and almost regretted the decision. Rafael's countenance had darkened significantly.

"Ay, guapo—why? Why do you have to see him?" Rafe covered his eyes with a hand and squeezed his fingertips, as if to put pressure on an oncoming headache.

"Hey, Rafe, look," Finn said gently. "He needs to know. I think I'm the only friend he has, and I don't want to keep anything from him."

"Baby, I don't like you seeing him. I'm not jealous—don't look at me like that. But he's a criminal. A rapist—un violador! I know you can handle yourself, but I don't like the idea of him being anywhere near you!" Rafe's tirade lost steam when he saw his lover's face fall hard. "Hey," he said, softening his tone significantly. "I'm sorry. I know you're only doing what a good friend should. I won't be the guy who tells you what you can and can't do. I just don't want to see you ever get hurt like that again."

Finn sighed. He was resigned to the fact that this was an issue that would not change for the better. Rafe knew his history, and Rafe knew Troy's, and it terrified his fiancé to think that someone might try to force themselves on his Finn again. But for the sake of the future they were kindling, Finn decided.

"I'll tell him this is it. It has to be, since we're moving across the country after the wedding. I think it's for the best. It's time to move on, and hopefully, he can move on, too. Is that okay?"

Finn's hopeful gaze kept Rafe's rapt attention. Rafael's eyes bounced back and forth between Finn's. He nodded gently.

"Whatever you decide, I'm with you one-hundred percent."

Finn placed his cheek on Rafe's chest. "I know, baby. I'm sorry. I'll give you anything you want. Just ask."

"No need, you don't have to apologize. If this is it like you said, we'll never bring it up again. Okay?" Finn felt Rafael's fingers sliding through his hair. Finn exhaled deeply.

"Okay."

"But I think I'm gonna cash in that Anything I Want offer you just gave me," Rafe said with a hint of mischief in his voice.

"Oh? What do you want?" Finn asked, popping his head up.

"I want us... to fuck each other. At the same time," Rafe replied with a filthy smirk. "I wanna try what those guys did in that hot scene we watched!"

Finn gawped like a fish out of water. "Babe, I think you're forgetting—You're the college gymnast. I don't know if I actually bend that way!"

"You can't back out on that offer, now, querido. You said `Anything you want. Just ask.'" Rafael's smirk was too much for Finn to refuse. Not that he could refuse him anyway, due to his vague but well-remembered offer. More specifically, due to the fact that he couldn't deny Rafe if he tried. Finn crawled over his husband-to-be and kissed him deeply to get the ball rolling. And roll, they did.

The moments after had them achieving what Rafe demanded. Each lover was inside each other, simultaneously fucking while being fucked by the other. Finn's brain was well on its way to short circuiting in pleasure. The only drawback is that they were seated atop each other like two kings on a playing card. They were joined at the hip, in a manner of speaking, and couldn't kiss each other. But the overriding factor was the pleasure. Rafael relished in his fiancé's intimate touch, and Finn felt much the same with Rafe. It would have gone on for some time had not Finn's teenage nephew, Felix, decided that time to come barging through the door, taking in the randy scene with unabashed interest.

"Didn't know you had that in you, Uncle Finn," Felix deadpanned with a raised eyebrow. The two newly engaged men scrambled for any scrap of clothing they could find. Finn lucked out with a nearby pillow. Rafe found a sock.

Finn laughed. "Baby, that's all you need."

The morning antics brought a smile to Finn's face, steeling him for what was to come. He gripped the gift-wrapped box he held a little tighter as he headed down the hallway of the eleventh floor. It wasn't that it was unsafe—it was that kids had been known to burst out the door running for the elevator from time to time. He approached the room he'd come to know with invariable frequency over the past three years.

Over the three years that Troy Petersen had been a free man. He rang the doorbell.

"Coming!"

The door opened onto a thinner but relatively healthy looking Troy. He wore a threadbare, maroon robe held open low at his hip, and a dark red support strap. Finn realized that underwear must have been part of his new uniform.

Or perhaps the uniform itself.

Despite having seen the man at various points over the past eight years, Finn mused that time had been kinder to Troy's looks and body than it had a number of other people he knew. Even still, seven years in prison was likely to change a lot about anyone. It certainly changed Troy.

"Hey, Finn," Troy said warmly. "Come on in!" Finn followed Troy into his meager abode, closing the door behind him.

The apartment was high enough to have a view, but the building touted no balconies. In addition, the view was that of the highway—not precisely scenic. Also, since the apartment was so high up, the windows wouldn't open. Everything was climate controlled... Thankfully, the heating and air actually worked—most of the time.

Finn hadn't seen Troy for a year, with his own life moving along in challenging, amazing ways. Finn gave Troy the number to his landline, sidestepping any texting or email communications neatly. Since the trials, Finn was cagey about giving his phone number to anyone, and he used the landline as an elegant solution to curb unwanted communication. His life, while challenging, had finally reached a semblance of order, and with Rafael, a great measure of love and joy.

It didn't take much to see that Troy's life had also been challenging, but amazing would be overshooting it.

No, Troy's life had been a shithole ever since he walked through the gates of the state penitentiary that would be his home of record for seven years.

Finn had been one of the first people Troy reached out to when his parents cut him off from everything. They disowned him. He'd been allowed his truck, a bit of money, and whatever clothes and belongings he could carry—but there would be nothing afterwards. No allowances, no assistance, no contact. Troy's mother and father were happy to accept him as a homosexual, but the video evidence they had been subjected to soured them on their son. How could someone they raised think blackmail and rape was acceptable? How did they raise a monster who took everything given to him for granted? The bitter irony is that the words "instrument of his own destruction" had fallen out of his mouth when discussing the torments that he gleefully forced on Nate.

It just so happened Troy was very much so pivotal in his own destruction.

The Petersens parted ways. That was three years ago. Troy had been fortunate, in a twisted way, that his grandmother had passed on shortly after the family edict took place, and she had not changed her will to reflect Troy's expurgation from the Petersen clan. He received a small inheritance—one which allowed him to rent this shoebox in a tower of shoeboxes, but little else.

Finn was also one of the first people Troy told about being infected with HIV towards the end of his sentence. That had been a hard visit. Troy had lamented being so quick to use sex for protection, giving it up so that he'd be safe in the showers, in the yard, pretty much anywhere that wasn't in his cell. Hell, even in his cell. As Troy discovered early on, condoms weren't exactly particularly high priority items in a Virginia pen. Perhaps in California, where the politics were clearly in the blue, but not in the red-as-a-fire-hydrant South. He found it a cruel irony that he scoffed at Nate for fearing AIDS when he was forced to get fucked bareback. Now here he was, living with HIV due to unprotected sex that he largely invited upon himself.

Finn tried to help Troy stay afloat. But the man's options were limited. Most places refused to hire a convicted felon. Those places that did hire ex-cons were usually fast food restaurants, and while there weren't restrictions, per se, for people carrying HIV to work with food, every place he'd applied with turned him away.

So, he turned to the world's oldest profession. He was a prosti—escort.

Escort sounded classier. At the time.

Troy still maintained his good looks and tried to keep a fit body. He looked good enough to dance at Claude's—but Troy's HIV+ status meant he couldn't work where the potential for transmission by sexual contact or blood-shedding injury from a slip or an accidental limb gone awry also meant the potential for infecting other dancers and the bar's patrons. But, even if he wasn't carrying the disease, Claude was furious that Troy had involved him and his establishment in the scandal surrounding Nate. The man barred Troy from ever entering his club again—for life.

Finn looked Troy over up and down. "Still... turning tricks?" While he said it without judgment, Troy flinched.

"You do what you can," he said evenly. "You know it's the only job that I can do that pays well enough." That had been his mantra when he began escorting. It had been the same mantra for the past eleven months. "All the other work won't pay for my food or my bills like this does," Troy said, not unkindly. He pulled up one of the hard backed chairs that were part of the mis-matched dining table set. Finn tentatively sat in it while Troy moved about his apartment.

Finn had been present when Troy made the decision to sell himself. He hated listening to the man plan his course of action. It involved a strange period of research where Troy scanned profiles of local area guys in several dating apps, compiling lists of what said guys were into. Finn shook his head in his head, thinking that if Troy had committed this kind of energy to more conventional employment, he'd be in a better place. He could do construction work. Clerical jobs at offices less critical of a person's past.

But Troy's downfall had always been his singlemindedness. Finn made it a point not to visit if he could help it. He tried to help the man from self-imploding. But Troy was headed down that path, hell or highwater. Finn did what he could to avoid watching it happen in slow motion.

"Want a beer? Water? I got those things to spare. Ooh—maybe that wine I got from a... client. Did you know my sister had another kid? A girl this time! She's beautiful," Troy said. Finn could see a haze of pain clouding the man's eyes. "I found out about my... niece through pictures on Facebook. I guess the post office lost my invitation to the christening," Troy chuckled sadly. Finn knew his laughter was a thin cover for the pain he drank down. "Sorry! What was it you wanted, water? Beer? Can you stay a while?" Troy said.

"Water's fine," Finn replied. "I've gotta be back home soon, though. I've got a date with my fian—my boyfriend."

"Oh," the dejection in Troy's voice stung Finn a little.

"But I came to bring you a gift," Finn covered quickly. He put the box the size of a textbook on the table in front of him, pushing it to Troy as he sat down.

"A present? Wow! Look at you, Santa baby," Troy laughed, a little flirty. He gave Finn a water bottle that Finn put off to the side on the table in front of him.

"It's not much," Finn said. Really, it was about $400, but the price wasn't important enough to share.

"It's plenty," Troy said, picking the present up gently. He shook it a little. "Ooh. It's heavy. Solid, too. Wait—did you get me a book?" Troy made a playful face of disgust as he brushed a lock of his dark brown hair away from his eyes. Finn smiled politely.

"I hope you like it. I had it made for you."

Troy's mouth fell open. "That's—wow, Finn. I can't..." Troy felt an immense sense of gratitude for the man in front of him. "Thank you. For this. For being here." Troy sighed. It was such a pitiful pittance of words. He wished he could do more, say more, that would make Finn want to come back to him. "It's been over ten years. Can you believe that?"

Finn tried to smile, but he grimaced slightly instead. Troy abruptly changed subjects. It had become Troy's tendency to ramble on Finn's visits, hoping something would stick that Finn would be willing to talk at length about—something that would have him stick around longer. Finn, on the other hand, wondered if Troy would ever run out of steam.

"I've been hoping to land a better paying... A better job. I make okay money now, but I'd make more if I wasn't HIV positive. Condoms make everything annoying for my clients. Some of them want to do some pretty wicked things, know what I'm saying? Some hardcore BDSM, some serious ass—" Troy noticed Finn's face fell into a look of deep concern. He redirected. "It's... intense. So, I got a gym membership with that little extra I got from some of those gigs. Keeps me sexy. Grandma's inheritance money's been a big help—I've got at least three more years in this place before it runs out. Maybe I'll find good work before then! Anything's possible, right? How was traffic? I hope you have chains on! That's how I screwed up the front axle on my truck. I can't drive until I get the thing fixed, so unless they live nearby, my clients have to come to me... That's why I look like this," Troy motioned to his "outfit" and grinned. "Like it? I don't mind so much. I like how it shows off my ass. Wanna see?" Troy rambled on, but there was a niggle of something that was said just before Finn distracted him with his present. "Wait... Wait, wait, wait... You were going to say something before you said `boyfriend', weren't you? Be honest. I'd be happy if you did. Are you engaged?" Troy hoped he'd misheard. He hoped that Finn was only talking about plans—that he started to say "fiancé" when he meant "boyfriend he was thinking about asking to be his fiancé". All of it was confusing, and tumbling around in his brain, but he held his breath at what Finn would say, and he desperately hoped that it was something Troy could work with.

Finn grimaced. He lifted his left hand, which had been on his lap beneath the table, up next to his face as he lightly wiggled his fingers.

On the ring finger was a white-gold band.

"Oh," Troy said, his smile slipping. He covered immediately with a big, overly enthusiastic smile. "That's great!" he said, knowing full-well in his heart that it was anything but. "Congratulations!"

Troy couldn't have expected the boy he loved to wait for him. Not when he was a convicted rapist. Not when he had done vile things to another human being while simultaneously seeing him. The two sides of Troy were impossible for Finn to rectify, owing to the man's own very personal experience with surviving rape. As such, it took two years for Troy to get Finn to visit him in prison where his own parents absolutely refused.

It was a small miracle that Finn kept his word and remained a friend, albeit a distant one. But as he swore to himself when his boy had rejected him, he'd do anything to keep Finn in his life, if only as a friend.

"It is," Finn agreed. "He is. We're getting married on New Year's. Then we'll be off to Oregon." He didn't want to elaborate further.

Troy felt the hope that he'd held onto for the past ten years crumble away bit by bit. "Oregon, huh? I guess that means we'll really have to plan our visits," he said as brightly as he could, wishing that he could ward off the rapidly encroaching shadow of finality lying in wait, ready to snuff out the light of Troy's hopes.

The thing Finn came to do had reared its ugly head, demanding the floor. This had to be quick, like ripping off a band-aid.

"He said, though, that he'd feel a lot better for me if I wasn't hanging out with an ex-con who went to prison for raping someone."

The blow was palpable. Troy couldn't mistake the things that were said. He was stunned into silence, dreading the words that could and would come next. How could he explain that he would never, ever hurt the masterpiece of humanity before him?

But that was a moot point. This was it. The last day of their friendship. Troy blinded himself to the possibility that this day could happen, and now that it was an inevitability, his brain scrambled desperately to try to keep the threads together. It wanted to find any way to make Finn stay.

"I'm sorry, Troy. I... I really am." Finn knew that he was probably Troy's only real lifeline in the world, and that saddened him. But given that Troy was suffering for his mistakes, this was one of those things tacked on that he could not help. One of those things in a long line of things that could not be helped.

A chime from Troy's phone broke the stillness. He looked at it and stood abruptly. It was a client.

Want to see you tonight, can't come to you, will send for you

Will pay $300 for you to spend the night

Will pay $200 per fist

Will pay for your Uber to and from my place

Still wear red jock

Strip at the door, knock five times slowly

Be ready to crawl in on your hands and knees

Wanna fuck your ass when you close the door

Be ready for it hard, don't be late

Seven hundred bucks to stay the night, get fucked hard, and get double fisted? Troy exhaled deeply. He could put the money towards repairing his busted truck. Of course, he couldn't sit in it for at least a couple of days, considering what he'd do for that $700. Not that it mattered. Pride was something he only had in his body, his looks. As long as he had those, he could get by. A sad thought filtered through that for the indignity of arranging for Zack to stick his fist up Nate's ass, he'd be taking two fists himself.

Karma is a bitch. Actually, when Troy thought about it, he was Karma's bitch. And right now, she was laughing.

A million thoughts blurred through his head—chief among them was trying to maintain a sense of dignity where he really and truly had none left. He decided if Finn had to end it, he'd end it for him.

Troy texted back, "Ok." When the phone made the sound signaling a message had been sent, he turned to Finn and gave him a plastic, pleasant smile.

"That'll be a client. He'll be by soon. Thank you for the present, Finn. I'm glad you stopped by. Take care, and Merry Christmas," he said, gently but expediently ushering a bewildered Finn out the door. He locked it and fell against it. The last vestiges of his chipped heart had suffered intensely, and it cracked into bigger pieces as the enormity of the truth hit him. Finn was getting married, and now, would no longer be a part of his life for reasons Troy could not control.

Well, he could have controlled the reasons, had he not been a sick, cruel rapist fuck that made the boy he loved, now a man, ill just looking at him.

A voice from beyond the door called out softly. "Merry Christmas, Troy. Take care of yourself."

When Troy opened the door a minute later, Finn was truly gone for good.

He really was alone.

Troy closed the door once more. He tried to keep his emotions in check, tried to keep from crying. He was going to hold it in for once, and not let it consume him. When his breathing had stabilized slightly, he sat down in the chair Finn occupied. Troy remembered Finn gave him a Christmas gift.

On the table before him stood the unopened bottle of water he'd given Finn when he arrived. Since the man touched it, Troy considered keeping it as it was, stowing it away in a keepsake box dedicated to the beautiful boy of his dreams. He kicked himself for not keeping more reminders, photos, even selfies. The cell phone he had before he was arrested was seized and searched with a warrant, becoming evidence in Nate's trial. As such, he wasn't likely to get it back unless he went to the auction where they sold it—but he was in prison when that happened. While the phone he bought when he got out of prison had a camera, Finn was too reluctant to even look at the camera, let alone take a picture with the ex-con.

Troy had his own social media accounts, but Finn never started any up, choosing to keep his private life... Private. Troy searched for Finn in every permutation of his name, scouring around for photos.

None were to be found. It was as if Finn truly didn't want anyone to know about his life. Judging from the brother who raped him, the people who harassed him in the wake of Nate's trial—how he was tied to that "rapist gay guy", it made sense that Finn just avoided the possibilities of unwanted, unsolicited contact altogether. In fact, the email address Troy once had was connected to the university, and when Finn graduated, he never let on if he had another address. Troy used to email Finn's old address—but he was painfully aware that Finn stopped checking that inbox years ago.

Maybe... he could pull out of his lease! Use the last $30,000 of his inheritance to fix up the truck and move out west! There might be more work for him there, and he could stay close to Finn!

But that thought died a slow death on the floor. It wasn't Finn he had to convince. Troy realized he was only deluding himself. The husband-to-be made the decision for his beautiful man that they would never see each other again.

He could pull his money, move away. But instead of having nothing here in Mount Pleasant, Virginia, he'd have nothing out there in Wherever-the-fuck, Oregon, and have the singular distinction of being thousands of miles away from everything he'd ever known.

Near the bottle was the gift Finn got him. He reached across the table and took hold of it. Troy gently peeled off the wrapping paper, trying to conserve it, to prevent it from shredding unnecessarily. In his heart of hearts, he would try to keep everything he could from this, as it would be the closest that he'd be to keeping the memory of Finn in his life, in some way, since he'd very much likely never see him again.

He opened up the box and found a beautifully engraved polished silver placard bolted to a handsome block of polished, lacquered cherry wood. Inset with care into the placard was a small oval cutout of a photo. It was of Finn and Troy, sharing a laugh, looking at the camera, outside in a wintry college quad. The camera caught them happy, mid-laugh, arms around each other's waists.

The placard read, "I hope you live a life worth living"

A card was inside the box. Troy opened it. The card bore a handwritten message:

"Troy,

I'm sorry this is the last time I'll be seeing you. This may be an end, but without me, you might find your new beginning. You'll find your way. I know it. That handsome, crazy, charming, creative guy is there, waiting for you to step up and be him. I pray this keepsake helps you remember better days.

I really do hope you're able to turn things around. Remember my hope for you. I mean it.

Take care of yourself.

—Finn"

Troy carefully tucked the card back into the box and held the placard as if it were made of eggshells, taking in every imperfection, every stroke of the engraved words, every knot in the wooden base. Most of all, he tried desperately to remember the day the photo was taken. What made Finn so happy. What Troy wouldn't give to be the cause of that happiness once more.

But never again.

Troy's client wouldn't need him until later that night. Right now, he regretted shoving Finn out the door the way he did, instead of trying to make the most of their last few hours, or last few minutes, or seconds, or moments together.

Yet another thing—another person that he took for granted, gone.

He sat down slowly on his apartment floor, cross legged, holding the placard. He held it close to him, curling around it, and he cried.

And screamed.

And cried.

*** *** *** *** ***

Drew wadded up what had to have been the 999^th rejection letter he'd received from major tech companies, promising start-ups, or even pedestrian companies looking for a part-time, on-call IT tech. Because of how sensitive the information technology industry was, hiring convicts of any kind was generally frowned on, and it ate at Drew. Despite his prowess, he was only considered by his crimes—which weren't even really IT related—and not his capabilities.

Buried in his stack of bills and letters were his Christmas cards from his mom, his dad. They wrote him, and he wrote them. It was their hope he'd visit for Christmas, and if they knew how he was living, they'd invite him to stay—but after the burden he put on them for his attorney's fees and the fines levied in his sentencing, Drew didn't want to contribute further to their debt.

He opened the envelopes. He could have cried when he opened the cards. Two one-hundred dollar bills made their way from his parents to him, in another gesture of love that Drew wondered if they could afford. Tempted as he was to send it back, he figured he'd deposit the money first chance he could and send his folks a kind thank you card in return.

Drew checked his watch. He thought of people to call to talk about his life, since he was avoiding a possible love intervention from his parents. Ethan? He went and fucked off, falling off the map altogether when the trial ended, though apparently, he'd heard Ethan ended up in jail three or four years ago anyway. Not that he'd have much to say to the fucker, since it was Ethan's finger pointed in his direction that got him nailed with possession of illicit materials with intent to sell or distribute. He would have gotten away with it, had Owen not downloaded so much of the library Drew thought he deleted. Wes? Probably not. The poor guy was in the middle of a downward spiral, and only Jason could reach him. Sometimes. Jason was equally unreachable, as his wife wanted her husband to end any contact that had to do with the trial. Wes was different.

It was because Jason named his first born twin after his brother-friend. Only fair since Wes tangentially named his son, Archie after Jason, using the man's last name creatively.

Outside of the isolation he fell into, Drew's life seemed okay. He married a porn star. He'd leave it at that. To people at the bars, it was the only thing people wanted to know, filling in the blanks with their own imaginations. They didn't need to know she was about fifteen years his senior. They met on the set of a film produced by a company that specialized in Feminine Domination—or FemDom. Alexis was one of those dominatrices. She was popular and since she was an owner in the production company and one of its stars to boot, she was paid handsomely for her work.

His work was okay. As the IT assistant for the studio, he made decent money at the production company. Not a lot, not enough to strike out solo. Since he was still relatively fit, he ended up acting in the studio's videos as a side hustle, trying to save up enough to be his own man. But since his wife was the bigger breadwinner of the two of them, he had to content himself in the knowledge that this was the best he could do for now.

But as he finished going through his mail, he heard the garage door open, and his wife coming into the house.

"Drew! Get that sweet, little ass down here!"

Drew sighed. Lilith must be horny. As he was told to do in those situations, he stripped off his shirt, took off his pants, his underwear, but left on his socks. He was always to present himself in this manner, with his underwear in hand in case she wanted him to sniff his own scent or stuff the thing in his mouth to silence him. He pulled his belt from his pants and looped it in on itself through the buckle and put the impromptu "leash" around his neck as he came downstairs to meet her.

"Mistress," he said submissively, eyes downcast.

"Aw, puppy wants to go for a walk?" She purred, snagging the belt and jerking him to her. She harshly slapped his dick, which was already hard and dripping.

"If mistress wants to," Drew said quietly.

"What I want," she spat, "is to replay that scene we were working on yesterday in the studio. Do you remember which one?"

Drew gulped. He nodded wordlessly.

"Speak up, maggot! I didn't marry a fucking mute!" she cried, slapping him hard with the back of her hand.

A bitch slap.

Because he was her bitch.

"I remember," he said, cursing his ramrod hard dick for betraying him. She grabbed his cock and smirked in his face.

"Awww, look at the puppy bone... I'll give you a treat if you'll be a good boy, and tell me what you remember... While I do it to you."

Drew wanted to cry. But one does what they have to do. He started positioning himself on the ground slowly as he spoke, getting on his hands and knees. She pulled hefty can of Crisco from the fridge.

They never cooked with Crisco, thankfully, so Drew knew that would never end up in their food.

It would only end up in him.

The scene was a pegging scene. The actor was a hunky guy, not unlike Nate in fact, but the actor couldn't "get it up" (according to the story of the scene) unless a woman in the exact shape and form of his wife manhandled his prostate and caned his ass and scrotum. And by manhandled, it involved a massive, girthy, hefty dildo—buried deep in his ass. And then some.

How the actor took it, Drew would never know. How he took it, he forgot, because he blacked out shortly after from the intense pain. When she brought him around, the dildo was still inside him. Alexis was far from finished with him. She pounded him hard with the monstrous marital aid and would not stop until after Drew had three explosive orgasms that his wife fed to his face as she made him stretch his legs over his head, practically fellating himself at his wife's command while she pummeled away at his anus with the 15-inch long, 7-inch wide hard-plastic, nub-studded dong. She didn't have to spear him too hard to hit Drew's prostate—and for Drew, that was all he wanted.

In the moments after his third climax and his second blackout, Drew thought of Nate—how when the hunky star athlete was his slave. He remembered thinking that he was excited to explore a new world of sexual horizons—things he could experience while being in complete control of his plaything at the time. But never did he ever imagine how those horizons would take him to some truly... uncomfortable places. The journey to those places meant that he wouldn't be holding the reins.

No, he was meant to be the horse.

He woke up in the shower, cold water running down his naked body. He didn't have to see or feel his rear to know it wasn't right.

He would have to work from home for a week until his hole had returned to some normalcy. In the meantime, he dragged himself out of the bathtub, dried himself with a towel Alexis left in a heap on the floor under the toilet, and crawled to the kitchen where the "fun" had been. He came to his wife's side on his hands and knees and his head down. When Drew felt the riding crop pushing him up by his chin, he knew that only then was he allowed to look his wife in the face.

"Good boy, baby. Now go get into that new lingerie I bought you and handcuff yourself in bed. I wanna fuck you so hard. It's gonna go on camera for our paying customers."

It was on the tip of Drew's tongue to ask if she was going to ride his dick, or if she was going to strap one on and ride him. Either way, he was in for a long night of edging, verbal degradation, and role-reversal shame in front of a live audience. The lacy underwear, the sheer teddy, the fishnet stockings, the pretty makeup she'd put on him while the camera caught it all... And then the emasculation.

And he had no choice but to take it.

The humiliation, the torture, the complete submission to her will—this is what she was after. This really wasn't his thing. He preferred to top, to be the one in charge. But marrying a dominatrix tended to carry that one particular caveat that being in charge wasn't always going to work out, and he'd likely end up doing something he really wasn't into, despite having three orgasms forcibly ripped from his body with shame and degradation as constant companions in Alexis's running dialogue. Indeed, he was always going to find his wishes at odds with hers.

Like they were in this moment.

Drew gulped. Alexis swatted his naked ass hard with her bare hand, urging him to get the fuck upstairs yesterday before she decides not to go easy on his ass.

He took a deep, shaky breath, and hoped he wouldn't be penetrated again that night.

He hoped.

But, if it makes her happy, then it's okay, right?

*** *** *** *** ***

A delicious, wet warmth sent electricity between Spencer's chest and his brain. He opened his eyes after a solid night's sleep to find his nipple under insistent assault from the man who now shared his last name. Technically, as hyphenates, they actually shared each other's.

"Good morning to you, too," he said to his husband, who had given up molesting his chest for moving down his lightly-furred, firm, slightly paler skin.

It's winter. It's not like he could maintain a tan year round in a place with four seasons. Maybe they could move to California.

Elliott smiled and kissed his way down to the top of Spencer's groin. He nudged his husband to roll over, digging in with gusto and lust into Spencer's crack.

"Fuck!" Spencer cried as Elliott's talented, wicked tongue lapped at his sweet little hole, still slightly swollen from the fucking he'd had the night before. It left him goofy and wanting, having his man go to town on him this way.

A memory came into his head from the last time anyone had given him such complete thought and care. It was after the trial, after Nate and Spencer were cleared to be in the same room without the presence of a lawyer or official of some kind. Their lawyers were against them spending any time together during the trial, even though Nate exonerated Spencer of any complicity in the degradation.

It didn't appease the Mount Pleasantonians much, but in a conservative town, little would. He'd get looks that he'd ignore, comments questioning how a gay guy would have not known he was raping an unwilling straight kid. Nate's situation garnered sympathy in the face of what had happened to him, but those he defended in court, Spencer, Claude, and Zack, still got side eye and judgmental murmurs behind their backs.

In his head, Spencer only had this to say: "Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you. And fuck you, and your little bitch dog, too."

Nate had been such a wonderful lover, concerned more with Spencer's pleasure over his own. But when the video aired putting Nate's degradation out for the world to see, Spencer only made himself available emotionally, not physically.

Then, after a couple months, Nate sat Spencer down for a sweet but sad conversation.

"I love you, Spencer. I really need you to know that."

Spencer sighed and gave a sad smile. "This is where you tell me that you're not gay, right?"

Nate laughed a little. "I'm saying you deserve someone who isn't fucked in the head right now. And you deserve a man who can love you more completely than I could. You're my friend, Spencer. One of my best. But I know that right now, I'm still healing, and I'm exploring. I've got a lot to learn, and I don't want to string you along, or make you feel like you have to hold on for me."

Spencer let a quick burst of a laughing sob escape him. "So... you're not not-gay?"

Nate took his hand. "I don't know what I am. I'm still trying to figure it out. You deserve a guy who knows himself better, and who can give you what you want and need."

Spencer's heart wasn't broken apart, but it was chipped. Nate tearfully begged and pleaded for Spencer not to hate him, not to send him away and break off their friendship. Spencer took Nate's face in his hands and gave him a gentle, intimate, but not overtly sexual kiss.

"I said that if it's not your thing, just know that I want to be a part of your life any way I can. Remember?" Spencer said, smiling through his own sadness.

Nate nodded.

"I love you, Nate. And it's okay if you're not in love with me. I'd hoped, but I also understand that this was definitely not made easy for you. You've got so much to figure out, and you don't want to hurt me while you're learning. I get it.

"But if there's ever anything I can do to help you understand, if you ever need someone to talk to, or hang with, or, you know, other stuff, if you're okay with it," Spencer added coyly. He knew other stuff was permanently off the market, but it was alright to joke about. Nate let a laugh erupt from his mouth as he brushed away his own tears. "Call me. See me. You know. Whatever you need."

"I might have to remember that `other stuff'," Nate said with a playful smirk. "Are you alright with that kind of arrangement?"

"Eh, I don't know," Spencer said with an exasperated sigh. "I mean, come on. I've got a whole line of ridiculously smoking hot, young, cocky basketball players with awesome blue eyes and gorgeous black hair just lining up for me."

Nate gave a warm grin. "You're amazing, Spencer. I'm an idiot, but I know the next guy who happens your way would be an even bigger idiot not to keep you."

Spencer chortled. Nate took it as his friend choking on his own spit, so he rubbed and patted his back. But it was the sentiment that Elliott had said when he and Nate had "gotten together" months ago that made Spencer sputter.

It's what brought him back to the coffee bar that Elliott worked at that day.

It turned out to be one of the best days of his life.

A couple of months later, Nate was off to San Diego for the college experience. Spencer and Elliott were dating in earnest.

Nate's father went after the Montroses in a civil assault lawsuit for the damages their son inflicted on his son. They had sold the farm and moved away but were pulled back into Virginia for the trial shortly after the case against Nate's living aggressors had closed. Mitchell won his son $1.5 million dollars—a couple hundred thousand over the amount of money the Montroses got for their farm. Nate knew his father needed to see justice done where Owen was concerned—and this blow to the people who raised a monster was plenty of justice. While Nate argued against it, wanting to let the dead be, Mitchell tearfully begged his son to let him do this for him. Clearly there had been guilt on his part for completely missing the atrocities being committed in his own home, under his nose, against his first born son. Nate conceded.

Nate's college experience was funded by the Montroses, along with his therapy. A very small fraction of the money from the lawsuit went towards lasering off the tattoo in the small of Nate's back that had been forced onto him in the early days of his degradation. There would be plenty left after. Mitchell included Spencer in the lawsuit against the Montroses at Nate's request. Spencer fought him at first, but Nate would not take no. He gave Spencer $500,000 from the lawsuit. Spencer was overwhelmed. It eventually paid for his first home with his now husband, who was chewing at the top of the crease of Spencer's taut butt.

Elliott started licking all the way up the length of Spencer's spine until he reached the nape of the man's neck. Spencer groaned as Elliott pressed into him, the familiar thickness, the rigidness, the heat he felt from Elliott's bare skin deep inside him. Elliott took hold of his hand—his ring hand, and their wedding bands clinked.

"I'll never get enough of that," Spencer sighed.

"What, baby?" Elliott said, nuzzling his husband's blond hair.

"The sound our rings make when they tap together."

Elliott smiled. "Spence..."

"Ell?"

"We've been wearing these for years."

A laugh bubbled out of Spencer, immediately followed by a drawn out groan of pleasure as Elliott changed up to that long-dicking they both loved so well.

"Fuck I could do this all day," Elliott ground out, tonguing Spencer's ear. He hovered over the long, lean body and demanded entry to his husband's mouth, and Spencer turned a bit to oblige.

They kissed and fucked for a moment more when Spencer's phone went off to a familiar, well-used ring-tune. It was Nate.

"Elli, baby, it's Nate."

"I know." Elliott kept up the murderously slow grind, making Spencer cross his eyes.

"You're gonna fuck me while I'm on the phone?"

"It's kinda hot," Elliott returned with a wicked grin.

"You're an ass," Spencer sighed as he answered the phone. Elliott changed angles just as he spoke, dragging his dick against his husband's prostate.

"Hell-OOO, Nate," Spencer cried. Elliott snickered loudly as Spencer recovered from the rush of pleasure.

"Well, hell-OOO to you too, handsome!" Nate responded cheerfully. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Spencer's breath drew out ragged as his husband continued to ride him mercilessly, without a hint of shame. "Oh, no, it's a good time."

"A real good time," Elliott ground out in Spencer's other ear. Spencer batted the man away. It didn't mean Elliott would give up on his assault. It just made it worse as the man hooked his hands at the top of Spencer's hips, withdrawing to the tip, and slamming home to the hilt at a pace like an oil rig in the desert.

"I'm back in town for Christmas. It's Noel's tenth birthday!"

"I know," Spencer said, grinning. "He was born the Christmas after we, um, met."

"He was, wasn't he?" Nate said kindly. "I'm kinda bummed not to be here and be a big brother like I could have been." It had been the Christmas spirit that gave Noel his name. The baby's name fit in with the family's lettering tradition—"M" for Mitchell and Marsha, "N" for Nate and Noel. In the aftermath of Noel's grand entrance, Mitchell gave Nate the honor of giving his little brother a middle name.

Nate chose "Mitchell". His father gave him a warm smile. Nate pulled his dad aside in the hall, and said he gave Noel that name, because had his father not been there for him, if his father hadn't been so open, he doubted he'd be in as good a place as he had found after the trial.

Mitchell was moved, and the two embraced in the hall—neither willing to admit to the other that they had quietly left tears on each other's shoulders.

"Aw, Nate," Spencer sighed before drawing a sharp breath due to his husband prodding his prostate yet again. "It couldn't be helped. But he knows his big brother loves him."

"Thanks, Spence. It's always good to hear."

"Of course," Spencer said with warmth. "Hey—how's T.J. doing? Did he finally get a prosthetic leg?"

"Yeah," Nate replied. "He's finished with physical therapy, in fact. Got himself a nice job at the Pentagon!"

"I know it's not what T.J. wanted for himself, but I'm glad to hear he's still working."

Nate chimed in. "Priya is happier about it. It might be a desk job, but it also means no more war zones or long deployments for the father of her daughters."

"Amen," Spencer said. His mind almost wandered when Elliott's throbbing dick pulled him back down to the pleasurable reality he lived in.

I uh... I've got some news," Nate said, hedging, tentatively.

"You're gonna stop everything you're doing and move in with Elliott and me and we're gonna be a throuple?"

Elliott snorted. "No fucking way, baby. This ass is all mine," he growled, just for Spencer to hear. Spencer barely had words to string together for him as he quickened his pace.

"A throuple? In the state of Virginia? Hell no!" Nate laughed. "Besides, I tried that once while I was in San Diego. It was amazing, but I couldn't handle that many people's feelings at the same time. Had to break it off. But there's a lot of that going on in California. Besides, Anya and I are pretty much set for life."

Anya. The beautiful woman with divine ebony skin and sterling gray eyes from Southern Germany that Nate fell in love with at his last year in UCSD. Spencer was very fond of her. Nate's journey after high school through his graduation from college had led him into an assortment of relationships—his friendship with Spencer took deep roots, despite his previous, misguided prejudices against anyone who wasn't straight. He found himself in a polyamorous one where he was involved with a man and a woman in a three-way relationship, even a lovely trans girl. Nate had shown remarkable maturity through it all. It took a while for him to settle down, to come to grips with the post-traumatic stress disorder and social anxiety that was a direct result of his sexual and psychological torments through different modes of therapy and mindful practice. When he met Anya, he was completely taken by her, head over heels. She was an intern for one of Nate's psychiatrists. The two married a year later. She was perfect for him, as he was for her.

When they got engaged, Anya and Nate flew out to her family's home in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, in the sunny heart of Bavaria, in the south of Germany. Nate learned enough Deutsche to ask Anya's father if he could marry his daughter. Herr Köhler laughed and told him in slightly accented but otherwise perfect English that there was no need—she could choose for herself, and he happily embraced her choice. Spencer got an earful of familial celebration and Nate's ecstatically frantic international phone call that he was getting married. Spencer's heart overflowed for his friend's excitement and slightly inebriated outpouring of love for the woman who made him a better man. Anya came onto the phone and promised Spencer she'd send him his invitation herself. It arrived just a few days later, in her very German handwriting.

Nate and Anya had since made a start for themselves in a small town in Oregon called Cannon Beach—a bit of a touristy spot, but definitely not big on the trappings of a bustling metropolitan city. Nate needed a quiet place in which to fall off the map. Even when he kept himself low-key in San Diego, Nate rarely left his off-campus apartment except to find a secluded beach to get away from the noise of other humans and the tangles of their lives. He'd come to accept that he may be recognized from time to time, but through therapy, he empowered himself to accept what happened and move on ahead. No one could hold it over his head now.

No one that mattered.

"So—oof! What's the news?" Spencer couldn't contain the noise of exasperated pleasure that escaped him when Elliott ground in pretty hard. They both had begun to sweat profusely.

"Anya's expecting. We're, uh... we're pregnant!"

Spencer's heart burst with happiness for his friend's good news. "Holy shit, Nate! That's fantastic! Congratulations!"

"We're expanding," Nate said. Spencer could hear the smile in his friend's voice. "Hey—you and Elliott have been together now, what, ten years?"

Spencer hummed his agreement. "Yep, married for the last five years, still going strong."

"When are you and Elliott going to expand your family?" If Spencer could see Nate, he'd likely see an earnest, hopeful grin that would threaten to knock him over if not for the fact his heart now belonged to another.

"We're working on it," Spencer groaned. "Getting a kid isn't so easy for us gays, you know."

Elliott murmured in the ear Spencer held his phone to. "If it was, you'd be pregnant all the time with all the fucking we do."

Spencer felt his gut clench slightly. It was a bit lewd, but Elliott's filter usually went out the second he... went in. The silence on the other end was a little concerning.

Until it turned into laughter that got louder.

"Oh, shit!" Nate cried, laughing hysterically. "That surprised me—phone flew out of my hand and I was dying."

"Glad you're amused," Spencer grumbled. Then openly groaned.

"Hey, Spence—put me on speaker."

Spencer did as Nate requested.

"Hey Elliott?"

"Yeah, Nate?"

"Try harder!"

Elliott laughed loudly, nuzzling Spencer lovingly. Spencer could have purred.

"I am. Believe me, I am," he called out. With those words, he started hammering Spencer for the home run that was mere moments from happening.

"Sounds like a party over there," Nate said. "I'll leave you guys to it—it's rude to interrupt family time."

Spencer laughed. "Remember Nate? Call anytime."

"Thanks, Spence," Nate said solemnly. "You know, Mom doesn't get it. She thinks, now that I'm married to a woman, that I shouldn't have any love or fondness for a gay guy. She doesn't understand us. In her mind, I think she still sees you as the boy who..."

"Violated her son," Spencer added quietly.

"Yeah," Nate said. "I told her she needed to grow up and stop being so narrow-minded. I'm not gay. I'm not bi. But I love the family I've made with the friends I've found."

"Straight, but not narrow," Spencer said with a warm smile. After all he'd been through, Spencer realized Nate could have absolutely been driven in the opposite direction, deeper into hate, into despair. But somehow he found his way, and Spencer and T.J. were there, virtually side by side, to help him along.

"Bingo," Nate replied. "Dad trusts you and appreciates you, and we told mom to deal with it. If Noel turns out to be gay, what would she do then? That shut her up." Nate blew out an exhale. "But you helped me get to good place. You were one of the few people who held me, held my hand through all of that."

"Nate, don't make me cry while my husband is banging me," Spencer chuckled sadly. Elliot steadied himself and curled his arms around his husband to give him comfort.

"I'm sorry," Nate said softly.

Spencer smiled. "Don't be. You're my friend. Nothing to apologize for."

"I'm glad we stayed friends," Nate said, sounding brighter than he had a minute before. "I'm...I mean... We'll always be connected, right?"

Spencer felt his heart in his throat at his beloved friend's words. Even Elliott nestled in to let his husband process what Nate said.

"We will, Nate. Always."

*** *** *** *** ***

THE END

*** *** *** *** ***

 

Hey, all—

Thank you all so very much for reading The Downfall of Nate Ramsey to its conclusion!

Jax and I hope this is a satisfying end to Nate's saga. I was one of the many readers who had followed the original story along to Chapter 15 where Jax put the pen down to focus on life, the universe, and everything over three and a half years ago.

In early March of this year, an exchange of emails took place when Jax kindly shared his notes with a fan desperate to know the score. After reading the notes, I asked Jax if I could write the ending for him, using his notes, with his input, his approval. There was plenty of back and forth with copious notes, suggestions, subtractions, and additions—and everything that held up in the wash has ended up in the pages of these last four installments. Much of what was written was with Jax's feedback, and what liberties I'd taken, I'd taken with his consent.

We had critical input from a friend and fellow Nifty.org author, J. Forrester (niftyencomiums@gmail.com), who crafted an excellent piece called Do As You're Told (http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/do-as-youre-told/) that tackled very serious issues also addressed in The Downfall of Nate Ramsey. There's a parallel piece to Downfall called Jack Hamilton (http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/jack-hamilton/) by Matt Smith (matterotica@hotmail.co.uk) that may prove a randy and familiar read.

 

Look to Nifty's Gay Authoritarian section for The Trials of Wes Stanford—a spin-off of The Downfall of Nate Ramsey that focuses on Wes's downward spiral and his rehabilitation and recovery through control, mind-games, and domination. Jax gave me the greenlight, and the treatment outline covers at least 26 chapters so far!

I also have a series of M/M romance novels that I'll be publishing on-line soon! If you'd like to be on a mailing list for future updates, please feel free to email me at kitfortier@gmail.com.

 

Feel free to hit me up with your comments, your questions, or your critiques. I'd be happy to hear from you.

If you'd like to drop the original author a line, Jax is happy to read up on what you have to say! jax.cooper@yahoo.com

Also, please be sure to send some love (and donations) to http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. The hundreds, maybe thousands of stories you read here would not be available without the people at Nifty.org at the helm!