Chapter 14: Day 4 night. Drunk David
The stale tang of cheap beer and leftover pizza crusts hung heavier in David’s room than usual. He wasn’t sprawled aggressively like Mark had been, or coiled with quiet intensity like Chris. He was slumped on the edge of his king-sized bed, the rumpled duvet swallowing half of him. An empty bottle dangled precariously from his fingers. The faint, tinny sound of a dying video game echoed from the living room – Mark or Chris, oblivious. A sliver of late afternoon sun cut through the grimy window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the chaos of clothes, textbooks, and discarded controllers. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap dressed in mismatched furniture.
He looked up as I hesitated in the doorway. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, swimming in a sea of alcohol and something else – a deep, melancholic confusion that twisted my already knotted stomach. The bruises Chris left on my hips throbbed dully beneath my jeans. The phantom ache of Mark’s grip on my scalp tightened. Three days. Three violations. Only David remained, and seeing him like this, wrecked and wretched, sparked a tiny, dangerous ember of hope. Maybe… maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the guilt, the history, the pathetic sight of him drowning in cheap lager would be enough. He’d been different before the pill. Awkward, yeah, but decent. Maybe he’d remember that.
"Hey, Tay," he mumbled, the old nickname slipping out before he caught it, his gaze flickering away. "I mean… Taylor." He rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rasping loud in the quiet. "Shit. I’m… kinda fucked up."
The ember flared. I stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind me, amplifying the isolation. "Dave… look at you. You don’t have to do this. Not like this." My voice was low, urgent. "The bet… it was stupid. Cruel. You know it. We can just… forget it." I gestured vaguely at his drunken state. "You’re in no shape."
He stared at the empty bottle in his hand, his brow furrowed like he was trying to decipher ancient text. A heavy silence stretched, filled only by the distant digital gunfire. Then he sighed, a wet, ragged sound. "Gotta pay rent, Tay." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine, swimming with a misery that felt contagious. "Said I would. Made the deal."
The ember died, doused by cheap beer and crushing inevitability. That tiny hope shriveled into ash. "Dave…"
"And you…" He gestured clumsily towards me, his hand sweeping over the curves forced upon me. "You look… fuck, Taylor. It’s not fair. Any of it." He took a shaky breath. "But I still see it. Want it. Even now. Even… like this." He sounded disgusted – with himself, with me, with the universe. "The deal’s the deal. Need you to… make me come."
Revulsion warred with a weary resignation deeper than bone. Mark’s crude demands, Chris’s brutal efficiency… David’s drunken, guilt-ridden insistence was somehow worse. More pathetic. More human. It scraped raw against the numbness threatening to swallow me. Survival. Just survive. Get it done.
"Fine." The word tasted like bile. "How?" The options churned in my gut. Mouth? Pussy? Chris’s invasion still felt raw inside me. My jaw ached at the memory of Mark.
He blinked, his drunk brain processing slowly. "Jus'… your hand. Okay? Start with your hand." He fumbled with the drawstring of his sweatpants, shoving them down his hips, his limp cock resting against his thigh. It looked pale, vulnerable. Undemanding. For now.
The relief was microscopic. Hands. I could manage hands. I approached the bed, the scent of beer sharpening. My own hands felt alien – small, soft, tipped with bitten nails that used to be chewed short. I knelt on the worn carpet beside the bed, the rough fibers scratching my knees. Reaching out, my fingers brushed his thigh. He flinched slightly.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Cold."
I wrapped my fingers around him. He felt soft, yielding. I started to move, a tentative up-and-down motion, my palm barely cupping him. It felt clinical. Detached. Like priming a stubborn pump. He moaned softly, a low, unhappy sound, and leaned back on his elbows, his eyes drifting shut. The pale shaft thickened slowly under my touch, responding despite the alcohol fog. The head emerged, flushed and slickening.
"That's it," he breathed, his voice thick. "Just… yeah." His hips gave a small, involuntary thrust against my palm.
I increased the pressure, settling into a rhythm. Up. Down. Twist slightly on the upstroke like I’d seen in porn, remembered from a life that felt centuries away. My forearm began to ache. The distant video game sounds provided a sickeningly mundane soundtrack to this grotesque ritual. David’s breathing hitched, growing shallower. He was hardening fully now, filling my hand, a solid weight. My skin crawled. The sheer familiarity of him, the ghost of friendship buried under this horror, made my stomach churn.
"Fuck, Tay," he groaned, his eyes still closed, a grimace twisting his features. "Feels good. Too good." He sounded like he was confessing a sin. "Need… need more. C'mon. Mouth. Just… taste it."
The reprieve shattered. My hand froze. "Dave, no. You said hand."
His eyes snapped open, bleary but insistent. "Changed my mind. Need to feel you. Your mouth. Please." The 'please' was desperate, pathetic. "Need to come properly. Gotta… finish this."
The air left my lungs. Chris’s bitter taste seemed to flood back. Mark’s choking thickness. I shook my head, panic clawing. "I can't. Not again. My jaw…"
"Just… just suck it," he pleaded, pushing himself up, his cock bobbing obscenely close to my face. The smell of pre-cum, musky and intimate, filled the space between us. "Quick. Hard. Like… like you mean it. I'm so close, Tay. Please. Just get me off."
The raw need in his voice, the drunken urgency, the sheer inevitability of it… Resistance felt futile. Exhausted, hollowed out, I leaned forward. Closed my eyes. Opened my mouth. The flared head bumped against my lips, smearing wetness. I let it slide in, the familiar invasion triggering a wave of nausea. Salt, skin, beer. I took him deeper, forcing my throat to relax, suppressing the gag reflex honed by Mark’s roughness. My lips stretched tight.
"Yeah," David hissed, his fingers tangling roughly in my long hair, not pulling like Mark did, but gripping, anchoring himself. "Fuck yeah. Like that. Suck it. Harder."
I obeyed, hollowing my cheeks, dragging my tongue along the sensitive underside. My mind screamed, detaching, floating somewhere near the dusty ceiling fan. My body moved on autopilot – suck, pull, swirl. His hips began to pump shallowly into my mouth. He tasted different from the others. Less aggression, more… melancholy desperation. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and humiliating, blurring the sight of his straining stomach, the clench of his abs.
"God, that mouth," he moaned, his voice cracking. "So fuckin' good. Knew it'd be good." His grip on my hair tightened. "Swallow it all. Gonna fill that pretty mouth."
The rhythm became frantic. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, forcing the head against the back of my throat. I choked, saliva dripping down my chin. He didn't stop. "Take it! Take it all, you fucking slut!" The word exploded from him, sharp and cruel, laced with alcohol and self-loathing. It wasn't Mark's casual ownership or Chris's detached dominance. It was David’s own venom, turned outward.
His cock pulsed violently. A hot, bitter jet hit my tongue, thick and sudden. Then another. And another. I choked, trying to pull back, but his hand held my head firmly, grinding his cock deeper as he emptied himself in desperate spurts. The salty-sour flood filled my mouth, pooling, coating my tongue and teeth. I gagged, my body convulsing, but he held me fast until the last tremor subsided.
He finally released me, collapsing back onto the bed with a gasping groan, spent. I yanked my head back, coughing violently, strings of thick white cum stretching from my lips. It dripped onto my chin, onto the worn carpet. The taste was overwhelming, cloying, mixed with the salt of my tears. I wiped frantically at my face with the back of my hand, smearing it.
David lay panting, an arm thrown over his eyes. The room stank of sex and beer and regret. He mumbled something unintelligible, already drifting towards unconsciousness. The last payment was made. The debt was clear. I stared at the cooling mess on my hand, then at David’s slack, vulnerable form. No relief. Just a crushing, silent emptiness, deeper than the garage shadows, colder than Chris’s indifference. The rent was paid. And I felt utterly, irrevocably evicted from myself. The video game sounds had stopped. The silence in the house was absolute. Broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing and the slow drip of David's release onto the floor. It was done. And the hollowness inside felt like an open wound.