Someday Out Of the Blue

by LittleBuddhaTW

Special thanks to Kitty (PiscesRising) for editing!

This is a story involving teenage gay males and may include sexually explicit content, adult language, and/or violence. If this kind of material is offensive to you, you are under the age of 18, or is illegal in the area where you live, do not read any further.

Author's Note: Please note that my new "official" home page is now at Also, check out my new short story, "Seeking Nirvana," in the 'High School' section at Nifty! As usual, comments are always appreciated! Enjoy!


Going back to school the week after Christmas vacation was hell. Not because I really disliked school, but because I wasn't sure where things stood with Ryan. It was like nothing had changed, but everything had changed, at least to me. What the hell does "take a break" or "cool things down" mean, anyway?

Ryan told me I needed to take some time to think about what I really wanted. To me, that was a no-brainer. I knew I wanted to be with Ryan. Cody was just ... well ... curiosity, I guess. Sure, he would make a great boyfriend. He was cute, sweet, intelligent, and wise beyond his years. But it had always been Ryan that I wanted. I didn't need time to think. I knew I wanted Ryan, and I told him so. But apparently that wasn't good enough for him. He told me that I needed more time to think. How was he supposed to know how much time I needed?

At this point, I wasn't really sure how I should feel anymore. I was depressed, but I was also angry. The problem was, I wasn't sure who I should be angry with. I was, of course, angry at myself for being stupid enough to kiss Cody, not once, but multiple times. I was angry that Cody wanted to kiss me, even though he knew I had a boyfriend. The problem with that, though, was that I could have refused, and I didn't. But I still blamed him, and decided to make it a point to stay away from him. Plus, if Ryan saw me hanging out with Cody or talking with him, it might make things worse.

I was also angry at Ryan, because he wouldn't believe me when I told him that I was sure of who I wanted to be with. The problem with that, however, was that at the same time, I knew that I didn't really have a right to be angry at Ryan, because he wasn't the one who messed up. So I was basically just a big mess of confused emotions, and I didn't know how to handle it.

Nothing new there, right?

It seemed like my whole life over the past several months had been turned into a rollercoaster of drama. Everything had been so simple before. Sure, I got beat up all the time, had no friends, and was miserable. But at least my life was predictable. I was only fifteen years old. Why did things have to be so complicated?

What made things worse was that on the surface, things between Ryan and me seemed to be almost "normal." He still talked to me, still put his arm around my shoulder, still wanted me to sit with him at lunch, and didn't really treat me any differently than before. Since we were at school, though, I couldn't really tell how affectionate he would be with me on the weekends, and I had to wait a whole week to find out, if he even really meant that I could still hang out with him then.

He said I could still stay over at his house, just like before, but if things were going to be awkward between us, like no more cuddling or kissing, just acting like "buddies," I didn't know if I could handle that. I felt like I was in a state of limbo, and it was awful. Breaking up would have been easier, because at least I'd know where things stood, and I could start trying to get over it. But instead, I was left waiting and wondering. And I didn't have a clue how long I had to wait. Days? Weeks? A month? It wasn't fair. But then again, nothing in my life ever seemed fair. It was like God or whoever was just sitting up there in heaven thinking about ways to make my life more miserable. Hadn't I suffered enough?!

Part of me wished Ryan would at least yell at me or something. I had no clue what was going on inside his mind. Was he angry? Was he hurt? What was he feeling? Was his telling me that we needed to "cool down" or "take a break" his way of saying that he wanted to do that? Was he having second thoughts about us being together? Maybe he finally realized how pathetic I was, that I was poor white trash who he had no future with, and he was just trying to figure out a way to get out of it.

Considering everything he'd done for me and said between Thanksgiving and Christmas, that little theory didn't exactly seem very rational, but I wasn't thinking very rationally right now anyway. If I wanted to have a "pity party" for myself and come up with all kinds of irrational explanations as to what was going on in Ryan's mind, then I would damn well do as I pleased!

AARRGH!!! These questions were killing me!

I wanted to talk to someone. I needed for someone to tell me what to do. But who could I talk to? I couldn't talk to Toby, and I didn't want to talk to Cody. All of Ryan's other friends were out of the question, too. I suppose that I could have tried talking to Mikey, but I still felt guilty about the last time he'd come over to Ryan's to see Toby. I hadn't even tried to salvage things between them. I just immediately went and tried to push Toby and Cody together without giving a second thought to Mikey. I was a jerk, so I couldn't face him now either. So, as usual, I was left alone to deal with this myself.

Getting through the school day was absolute torture, made worse because Ryan was still actually with me, for the most part acting like everything was normal. At lunch, everyone was talking about what they had done over Christmas vacation and what they got from their parents. I wasn't very interested in the conversation, though. I just wanted to run out of there and head for the auditorium and the sanctuary of the piano. I knew I couldn't do that, though. Not without raising a few too many eyebrows, and it was apparent that no one else knew that Ryan and I were currently "taking a break."

After school, Ryan drove me home as usual. I didn't bring up our relationship again. I figured that he'd let me know when he'd decided that I'd had enough time to think. I just had to suffer while waiting, only able to imagine the worst. I knew Ryan well enough that I was pretty sure he wouldn't completely kick me out of his life, even if he decided we couldn't be "together" anymore. He was good to his word, and he'd said that we would always be friends, no matter what I decided (although it seemed like it was more his decision now than mine).

But the thought of being "just friends" was just as bad as being out of his life altogether. Knowing that we'd once had something special, where I could hug him or kiss him whenever I wanted, where he would hold me and comfort me, feeling his warmth at night when I slept, and then suddenly having that taken away, yet still having him to be around him, pretending that everything was fine, but not being able to be the way we had been ... that was a devastating thought. It would be too awkward. No, not just awkward ... heart-wrenchingly unbearable.

I imagined it was like being addicted to a drug, then suddenly not being able to have it anymore -- still having it shoved in your face every day, yet never able to touch it. It was enough to make any person go insane, and that's exactly how I was feeling.

"Are you okay, Connor?" Ryan asked, turning to look at me as we neared the trailer park.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just bummed out that we're back in school is all," I lied.

He gave me a measured look, but didn't say anything more.

Why was he even still being nice to me? I wondered.

When we pulled up in front of the trailer, Ryan gave me a hug before I got out of the car. An aching, empty feeling consumed my heart as I watched him pull away. I didn't know how long my fragile heart and mind could take this. After one day, I was about to lose it completely.

As I walked inside, shutting the door behind me, I immediately saw my mother lying on the couch, her tattered green robe hanging open, revealing her naked body underneath. I was surprised to find that she was also smirking at me. She hardly ever paid attention to me at all, unless it was to beat me, but that hadn't happened much lately, ever since Krull had been around. I wished he'd been there then, to keep my mother's attention away from me.

"I saw you outside hugging that boy in the car," she spat. "I should've realized you were a dirty little faggot."

I just stood there frozen in place. I didn't know how to react. There was a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, so it was apparent she'd been drinking, but she obviously wasn't drunk enough to pass out and thus not be able to give me a beating, if that's what she had in mind. I'd never thought about my mother finding out. I guess I figured that she wouldn't really care, being preoccupied with getting her next fix, whether it was drugs or a man. Maybe I was wrong.

"I was hoping you'd be able to take care of me now that Krull is gone," she continued, with a nasty leer on her face. "Your puny little cock isn't enough to satisfy me, but you could at least eat me out. But since you're just a diseased little faggot now, I guess that won't work. I'll have to find something else useful for you to do."

My mind was suddenly racing with a million thoughts. Krull was gone?! Shit! That was the only thing that had seemingly kept my mother out of my hair for the past month. And my own mother wanted me to have sex with her? I couldn't believe it. That was the nastiest, raunchiest thought imaginable. I shuddered at the thought.

Ewwwww! Just ... yeah ... ewwww! I think I'd rather have sex with a fifty-year-old fat French prostitute with hairy armpits and a pock-marked face.

"Get out of my sight!" she barked at me, before I had time to process everything that was going on in my brain.

Not needing to be told again, self-preservation being the only thing on my mind at that moment, I immediately made my way to my small bedroom and closed the door. I collapsed on my old, hard mattress, cursing a God I wasn't even sure existed for giving me this life. What did I do to deserve this?

Bemoaning my miserable life, I put on my headphones and popped my cassette of Elton John's Blue Moves into my old Sony Walkman. If you were looking to wallow in self-pity, which I certainly was, then Blue Moves was the album to listen to. It was Elton John's most depressing and disturbing work, written and recorded in 1976, when Elton's long-time lyricist, Bernie Taupin, was going through his own personal crisis. How ironic that the song that came on was "If There's a God In Heaven (What's He Waiting For?)." The pleading vocals and depressing lyrics only added to the depths of my despair.

If there's a God in heaven
What's He waiting for?
If He can't hear the children
Then He must see the war
But it seems to me
That He leads His lambs
To the slaughter house
And not the promised land ...

Now that Krull was gone, there was no telling what kind of trash my mother would bring home next to beat up on me. And when the beatings started again, which I was sure was coming, how would I hide the evidence from Ryan and Maggie? And what did my mother mean about "finding something useful" for me? I cringed at the thought.

She had done some horrible things to me over the years, but something about the look in her eyes when she said that made me fear that this time would be different. I didn't know what she had in mind, but I knew it wouldn't be pleasant. I just hoped I could survive it. But maybe this time I didn't want to survive it. What would be the point anyway? What did I have to go on living for? To just get beaten on yet another day, either at home or school?

Once my cassette of Blue Moves was finished, I fished out my copy of Elton's classic Tumbleweed Connection, and lo and behold, the song that just happened to come on when I hit 'play' was "Where To Now, St. Peter?" This whole "religious theme" just seemed to keep resonating over and over again. Was this some kind of message or something? It just made me hate Him even more.

So where to now, St. Peter?
If it's true I'm in your hands
I may not be a Christian
But I've done all one man can
I understand I'm on the road
Where all that was is gone
So where to now, St. Peter?
Show me which road I'm on
Which road I'm on ...

That song seemed to echo my sentiments exactly. I had no idea where I was going. But wherever it was, I was pretty sure now that I would be going there alone.

Sleep would be a long time coming tonight, I sighed to myself ... and it was.


Since I had decided not to continue participating in the jazz band after the Christmas break, I didn't have to see Cody on Monday night. I was glad about that, because I didn't really want to see him. During the day on Monday and Tuesday, he saw me in the halls and waved to me, even tried talking with me a couple of times, but each time I either pretended I didn't see him or brushed him off. On Wednesday morning, however, he caught me in the hall during our break. I was definitely not in the mood for his usual cheerfulness.

"Hey, Connor! What's been going on?" he asked as he walked up beside me.

"Nothing," I answered curtly.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his expression suddenly turning to one of concern.

I still blamed him for "seducing" me, and it pissed me off that he could be so upbeat and optimistic all the time, while because of what he did, I was now miserable.

"Yeah, something's wrong," I spat at him. "Ryan and I had a fight because of you wanting to kiss me every time we hung out. Now I don't know if we're even together or not anymore. So just stay away from me and stay out of my fucking life!"

I didn't think before I spoke. I just blurted it out. But dammit, I was mad. I'd already beat myself up over this whole mess, and I needed to spread around the blame a little bit. And Cody just happened to be a good target.

"Oh ...," he said quietly.

I was expecting some kind of comeback or for him to say something in defense of himself. I was prepared to argue. But he didn't say anything. He just got a sad look on his face, looked down at the ground, and walked away. Not even a fucking apology!

But as soon as he walked away, I started feeling guilty. Yeah, maybe it wasn't right for him to kiss me when he knew I had a boyfriend, but I could have said no. Plus he just didn't seem like the type of person who would do something to knowingly hurt someone. I should have just talked to him when I had the chance, but I blew it ... again. I hurt him, just like I'd hurt everyone else who meant anything to me in my life. With my future with Ryan being uncertain, Cody was really the only other friend I had. If I lost him too, then I really would be completely and utterly alone. Maybe that's what I deserved.

I wasn't sure if Ryan was planning on coming to my show at the pub on Wednesday evening, but before I had the chance to find out, I told him not to because I wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be going. It wasn't true, of course, but I figured if he was going to be there, it would throw me off too much, and I'd end up giving a crappy performance. And if he didn't show up and I was hoping to see him, it would likewise upset me and probably affect the show as well. So, for once, I took the initiative in my life, and felt like I had at least a little control over something.

I was a little surprised, though, that he seemed disappointed as well as concerned when I told him I wasn't feeling well. He asked me to go home with him so Maggie could check me out, but I assured him that it was just a small cold, unlike last time. I'm not sure whether he believed me or not (I didn't really look sick), but he didn't argue.

Despite my depression, anger, and confusion over the past several days, I was still really looking forward to performing. It would give me the opportunity to vent all of the emotions that had been bottling up inside of me. It was hard for me to put what I was feeling into words, not that I had anyone I could talk to about it anyway, but I could express everything I needed to get out through my music. That was the only way I knew how to deal with it. And they do say that heartache can be the catalyst for great music.

I got to the pub a little early that night, and even managed to get Andy, the twenty-two year old bartender, to sneak me a couple of strong drinks. He was a student at the university, and worked at the pub to help put himself through school. He was a really nice guy, and to top it all off, he was quite attractive, too, with spiky brown hair, dark eyes, and a boyish face. He also had that "frat boy" look about him. I bet Mikey would like him!

Andy brought two Jim and cokes back to my changing room, and I managed to down both of them in the forty-five minutes I had before the show. Considering my body size, and the fact that I'd never really drunk much alcohol before, one probably would have been enough to get me buzzed. After two, I was pretty well drunk, though fortunately not to the point of feeling sick. Puking my guts out on stage would not have been cute ... not cute at all.

I hadn't even thought about a set list for the evening's show, but considering my mood at the time (and the effects of the alcohol), I decided to play the most depressing songs I could think of, all about relationships that had gone bad and love loss. It would definitely be a change of pace from the show I did on New Year's Eve. Part of me was regretting telling Ryan that I wouldn't be performing tonight, because perhaps he would have noticed how miserable I really was. At school, I had tried to put on a brave face. Whether or not he could see through that was another issue, though.

I didn't even bother changing into my stage clothes. I just put on a black track suit and a pair of plainblack sunglasses, then walked to the side of the stage to wait for Mr. Bill to give me my cue. The audience was larger than usual for a Wednesday night, but not nearly as packed as it was on Friday evenings. Although part of me had always dreamed about being a rock and roll star -- which, to me, was next to impossible, since I didn't really have the "look" or charismatic personality for it -- I liked the intimate feel of playing in small pubs.

Taking my cue from Mr. Bill, I walked over to the piano, sat down, and adjusted my microphone. This time, rather than going into one of my typical, up-tempo show starters, I just played the piano, a slow-tempo, melancholy piano improvisation, letting my fingers slide gracefully across the keys, eyes closed, my body swaying gently, pouring out my sadness into the melody. I couldn't write lyrics to save my life, which is why I never tried writing my own songs, but I could come up with melodies easily. I didn't even need to think about it. The music just flowed out of me like an uncontrollable current of raw emotion.

After teasing the audience for about five minutes with my long piano intro, I segued into a very old, rare Elton John song from 1969, called "It's Me That You Need," a beautiful, intricate melody with an impassioned vocal, pleading with a nameless lover to return. My eyes were closed, my body hunched closely over the piano, and my mouth pressed right up against the microphone as I sang. I could still smell the faint odor of beer and cigarettes from the evening's previous performer.

Without stopping to acknowledge the audience's reaction after the first song, I continued right on with Elton's "Where To Know, St. Peter," "I Feel Like A Bullet (In the Gun of Robert Ford)" from Rock of the Westies, "Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word," a bluesy interpretation of "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues," the haunting ballad "Sacrifice," from Sleeping With the Past, and my only up-tempo number of the evening, "Sad Songs (Say So Much)." I finally switched to something other than Elton John songs, and finished up with Annie Lennox's poignant ballad "Why," Carole King's "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow," and Billy Joel's "Honesty."

Each song expressed what I had been feeling over the past several days, and my vocals were more impassioned than usual. As I was sitting there, I pictured that it was Ryan I was singing to, pouring out my heart to him. After briefly going backstage to splash some water on my face and noticing the reflection of my tired and haggard face in the mirror, my eyes devoid of their soul, I returned to the stage for my encore. For my last song, I chose Jim Reeves' classic "He'll Have To Go," and as I was singing the heart-wrenching lyrics, I could imagine that it was Ryan who was now singing those words to me.

Whisper to me, tell me do you love me true
Or is he holding you the way I do
Though love is blind, make up your mind, I've got to know
Should I hang up, or will you tell him he'll have to go?

You can't say the words I wanna hear
When you're with another man
Do you want me, yes or no
Darling, I will understand

Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone
And let's pretend that we're together all alone
I'll tell the man to turn the jukebox way down low
And you can tell your friend there with you he'll have to go.

It took everything I had not to break down and cry during that song, praying silently to myself that Ryan wasn't feeling the same kind of pain that I was. As I sang those words, the little bit of anger and resentment that I had previously felt completely melted away, and all I felt was regret and remorse for what I had done. Ryan meant everything to me, and I couldn't bear the thought of hurting him after everything he had given me. I knew right then that what I felt for him was "love." It couldn't be anything else. I loved Ryan. I was in love with Ryan. But could I tell him that? Would that make him take me back, or would it just freak him out?

Despite the circumstances, that show was probably one of the best performances I had ever given, because it wasn't my "alter ego" up there singing. It was the "real" me, baring my soul completely. The stunned silence of the audience also let me know how emotionally moving it must have been. And I decided that it was now time to bear my soul completely to Ryan, too. It was like an epiphany. I couldn't go on living my life the way I had been, not only being tortured by my own emotions, but also by my mother. No more secrets. No more hiding.

I would tell Ryan and Maggie everything. She'd told me to trust her. And it was time to put that trust to the test. But first and foremost, I was going to tell Ryan I loved him, that he was the center of my universe. If he could take me back and love me too, then I would find a way to deal with whatever my fate would be after spilling my guts to Maggie.

I now had a sense of purpose and a newfound faith. I felt like I was now finally starting to have some control over my life, and it felt ... liberating.


When I came home after the show, I immediately wanted to call Ryan, but found that our phone had been disconnected. Money had been especially tight lately, and the phone was one luxury we couldn't afford. I was just disappointed that it had happened so soon. Now I'd have to wait until the next day at school to talk to Ryan. I figured it would be better, anyway, to tell him in person rather than on the phone. That way, he could see in my eyes that I really meant it.

Every time I admitted it to myself, that I loved Ryan, I felt a tingly sensation all throughout my body. It felt great. I just had to hope that he would accept what I needed to tell him, and that he would feel the same way. We had shared a lot together, so I needed to have a little faith, and I was trying to be confident, despite the negative turn things had taken at home. What else could I do? I had practically given up before, and I wouldn't do that this time. Because I loved him!

As I was reading the next lesson in my World Religions text book, trying to distract myself, the door to my bedroom was flung open, and I looked up to see my mother and a man I had never seen before standing there. My mother looked even more strung out than usual, and the man gave me the creeps.

He was tall and lanky, with dark hair and a receding hairline that was combed slickly back. He was holding a tattered leather briefcase and wearing gray slacks that looked like they hadn't been washed in a while, and a white dress shirt with frayed cuffs that was only buttoned up halfway, revealing a bony looking chest. He was sweating profusely and breathing in short, ragged breaths. I could smell his pungent body odor from across the room, and it immediately made sick to my stomach, not to mention the way he was looking at me, as if he was appraising me. I was suddenly very frightened as they just stood there staring at me, the man frequently licking his lips and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"So this is the boy?" he asked, apparently addressing my mother, although his eyes never left me.

His high-pitched, trembling voice and piercing stare left me feeling very unsettled.

"Yeah, and it turns out that he's a fag. He'll probably love this," she said with a nasty smirk.

I didn't like where this seemed to be headed. I wanted to run, but there was no way out.

"The stuff you wanted is in the brown paper bag on the kitchen counter," he said, again addressing my mother. "If he's good, then we'll call it even."

"Fine," my mother said. "I don't care what you do to him. Just try not to kill him. He might come in handy again later."

There was no emotion in her voice, and as soon as she finished speaking, she left the room, closing the door behind her, and leaving me alone in my bedroom with the crazed-looking man.

"What do you want?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Actually, I was pretty sure what he wanted, and the thought was both revolting and terrifying. I couldn't believe that my own mother would do this to me. She was trading her son for her drug fix. She'd been cruel to me ever since I'd moved in with her, but I never could have imagined she would go this far.

"We're going to have a little fun tonight, sweet thing," he said, with a sickening laugh.

"Stay away from me! Leave me alone!" I shouted at him.

I'd never stood up for myself before, never fought back when my mother or one of her boyfriends beat on me. But not any more. What he wanted from me, I was not about to give up without a fight. I was determined that that was for the one I loved, Ryan, and the thought of this disgusting man defiling me, taking away the last of my innocence, and stealing something that should be between my boyfriend and me was enough to make me want to kill him, or die trying.

Before I could react, though, he had darted across the room and pounced on me, pinning me down on the mattress, holding my arms above my head. I could feel his sweat dripping onto my face as he eyed me hungrily, his putrid odor filling my nostrils.

"You can be a good little boy and give it up easy, or we can make this difficult," he said, sneering at me. "Although personally, I'd rather you put up a fight and scream. I like to play rough. And once I'm done toying with you, you'll be begging me to fuck you over and over again. Yeah, that's right, I'm gonna make you beg me for it, you little boy-whore."

There was suddenly the sound of a loud crash from the other room, which distracted him long enough to give me the chance to bring my knee up into his groin, causing him to roll off of me, clutching his groin in pain. I took the opportunity to bolt towards the door, but he was too fast for me, grabbing me by the ankle and dragging me down to the floor with him.

"You little shit!" he screamed. "You're just going to make it a lot worse for yourself!"

Unfortunately for me, since this was the first time I'd ever decided to fight back, I wasn't really sure what to do. I was operating on pure instinct by that point. He obviously wasn't new to the whole rape thing, though, and before I had the chance to recover from being tackled, he was on top of me again, grabbing me roughly by the hair and slamming my head into the floor several times.

Still holding onto my hair, he pulled me up to my feet, then grabbed me by the throat and slammed me up against the wall, pinning me there. He was smarter this time, and turned his hip toward me so that my knee wouldn't have access to his groin. He then reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a vial of liquid. With the hand that was strangling my throat, he managed to pry my mouth open and with the other poured in the liquid. He then forced my mouth shut, using his free hand to pinch my nostrils closed and force my head backwards, causing me to swallow the vile, bitter tasting liquid.

"That was GHB," he said, continuing to hold me pressed up against the wall. "It'll make you a lot more cooperative. You might even like it."

I was still struggling, but his grip on my throat was firm. Before I realized what was happening, he pressed his mouth against mine, forcing his tongue inside. He tasted like alcohol and stale cigarettes. I took the opportunity to bite down on his tongue, causing him to let go of me and give me another chance to make a mad dash for the door.

Again, though, he was too fast for me, and managed to tackle me to the ground. Once he got me down, he sat on my chest and began punching me repeatedly in the face. I lost count of how many times he hit me, but before long could feel a warm liquid running down my face that I could only assume was blood. I certainly wasn't crying yet. I wouldn't let this son of a bitch see me cry, no matter how badly he hurt me.

By that point, whatever he'd drugged me with was taking effect, and it dulled the pain somewhat. It also made my body feel like a dead weight, and waves of both euphoria and extreme lethargy began to pulse through my body. My mind was telling me to keep struggling, but my body wasn't cooperating, and as my vision became more and more blurry, and the sensations stronger and stronger, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist much longer. Much to my horror, I was also starting to feel really horny. Not horny for him, but just in general. And that sickened me.

As he began pulling me toward the mattress, my mind was in turmoil. Visions of Ryan kept flashing before my eyes, telling me that I couldn't give up without a fight. I couldn't let myself be raped by this scumbag. But at the same time, the chemicals flowing through my blood stream were breaking down my willpower, telling me that it wouldn't be that bad. I was starting to feel very relaxed, but I didn't want to be. Part of me kept telling me to fight.

Before I completely succumbed to the effects of the drug, I managed to let loose one last wild flurry of kicks and punches as I lay there on the bed, with him standing above me. But they were totally ineffective and off the mark. My arms and legs were completely uncoordinated. My attempt at fighting back, however, caused my attacker to start kicking me fiercely in the ribs and head. It seemed like hours that he was savagely pummeling me.

It was growing difficult to breathe with each kick to my ribs. After a few more kicks to my head and face, I could hardly see through all the blood. At that point, I couldn't stand it anymore. I just wanted him to get it over with. I was barely conscious and prayed that I would either pass out or die. I would have probably preferred death at that point, because if I survived, I would be forever tainted. I wouldn't be able to face Ryan, and he would probably never want to touch my filthy body again.

As I lay there moaning, barely aware of my surroundings anymore, I noticed him kneel down on the floor and open his briefcase, pulling out a number of items and arranging them neatly on the floor by the mattress. There were handcuffs, some rubbery objects that were shaped like massive penises, and a long strand of large beads. I had no clue what he could possibly use those for, and by that point, I didn't really care anymore.

The next thing I felt was being rolled over on to my stomach, and my shirt and pants being savagely ripped off. I then heard the faint sound of a zipper being undone, and moments later a heavy weight pressed on top of me, and something large and hard began probing at my butt hole.

"You're about to get the ride of your life, little boy," I heard a disembodied sounding voice crooning in my ear.

I couldn't scream, I couldn't move, I couldn't fight back. I was sure that I was going to die. The last thing I saw in my mind was Ryan's face, the one thing that was worth living for. But he couldn't help me now. No one could. Not even God. Because He couldn't exist. He couldn't let something so cruel and evil happen to one of His own children. No, God never came here. God passed me by.

And then, as I felt something wet and slimy slurping at my neck, and the searing pain of my butt hole being violently forced open, everything went completely dark.

Copyright 2006. All Rights Reserved. No parts of this story may be copied, reproduced, in print or in any other format, without express written consent from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

* Lyrics to "If There's A God In Heaven (What's He Waiting For?)" (written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin), Copyright 1976, Big Pig Music/Rocket Music Ltd.
** Lyrics to "Where To Now, St. Peter?" (written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin), Copyright 1970, Dick James Music Ltd.
*** Lyrics to "He'll Have To Go" (written by Audrey & Joe Allison), Copyright 1962, RCA Music.

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