This story contains scenes of nonconsensual, painful sex, including nonconsensual bondage and some minor bleeding, as well as themes of questioning one's sexuality. Proceed with caution
*
It was funny, when Dylan looked back on it, to think that all the insane events around Rose's reentry into his life happened between one Thursday and the next. A very eventful eight days, proceeding a long stretch where nothing much happened to him.
For one thing, Kim ghosted on him Friday, just stopped returning his texts. He spent most of the day trying to get an answer out of her about when she'd be ready to go on a date, and as noon rolled into afternoon rolled into evening, he slowly got the hint that she wasn't coming. Through friends of friends, he found out that she'd been rushing a sorority, Gamma Gamma Gamma. Bad sign, he knew there were a few girls there who hated his guts, particularly Ashley, the sorority President, who had thrown a plate of macaroni at him last year in the dining hall after he'd gotten a bit aggressive with one of her friends.
"I just don't get it," Dylan mumbled to Bray one night. They were hanging out in Bray's room, just the two of them, drinking craft IPAs. "She sends me nudes for the first time, and that's literally the last I ever hear from her. Just fucking ghosted."
"Bitches, man," Bray slurred, "who can understand it?"
Dylan grunted in agreement.
"Like, I know you'll think I'm crazy," Bray said, "but that's kind of what I like about Rose, you know? Like she's very straightforward in her way, you know what you're getting."
Dylan looked down at his beer. "Don't talk about Rose."
"Sorry dude." Bray scratched the back of his head. "Hey, man, are you, like, traumatized by what happened with her?" Dylan said nothing, so Bray continued, "Cause I can see how it might mess with you, you know? She might be more than you can take if you're, you know, a pussy. No offense. I can handle her just fine though." He shook his head with this big wistful grin on his face. "God, she really is a lot of woman."
"I said don't talk about her."
So Dylan dragged himself to the gym every evening of that week to do his butt exercises, and every evening he trudged back home imagining what Rose might have in store for him this time around, feeling trapped, feeling hopeless, contemplating all sorts of horrible perversions he'd have to comply with.
Perhaps the only thing he didn't imagine was that he'd show up at Sodom House on Thursday and Rose wouldn't come for him. He walked up to the porch, texted her "Here" when he arrived, and just lingered there for ten minutes. No response. He sent her a "?" and kept waiting.
It obviously wasn't that he wanted her to come down and get started on whatever she was going to do to him. Obviously. But he hated waiting, hated having to stay in this uncertain state. After a few more minutes he started knocking on the door, loudly, continuously, until it swung open and Ganza was glaring down at him, with an irritated expression that transformed into an interested grin when she recognized him. "Hey blondie."
He huffed. "I'm here for Rose, any chance you can go get her?"
Ganza glanced inside. "I don't wanna interrupt her right now," she said, still grinning.
"Why not?"
She hesitated, and then, "She's got another boy she's focusing on."
"Oh. Okay." Dylan blinked a few times. "Like, focusing on him right now at this moment, or is that more of a... habitual thing?"
Ganza shrugged. "Well, he's been here for a couple days now. We've all had turns with him. Little squealer," and here a wicked grin sprang to her face, "especially when Skye and me both had our dicks up his ass at the same time."
"Ah. So, what, does that mean she doesn't... you know, want me anymore?"
"I dunno," Ganza shrugged again, "Like I said, I don't wanna interrupt her."
"Hrmf," Dylan looked off to the side.
"What, are you jealous?" She seemed very clearly amused.
"No," he said, a little more defensively than he would've preferred to sound, "just, you know, wish she'd told me, so I didn't waste a walk out here."
"Well hey," and here Ganza stepped out of the door frame to put a hand on Dylan's shoulder, "it doesn't have to be a waste. If Rose is done with you, there's nothing stopping you from riding my dick tonight."
Adrenaline hit, Dylan backed away from her, swatting her hand away. She looked down at him, menacing sort of irritation emanating from her. "I'm going home," he said firmly. She reached out to grab his arm, but he darted away down the street. Thankfully, she didn't follow him.
The next day Dylan sent Rose a message, "Hey, just to be clear, are you done with me?"
No reply.
The day after, "If we are done, I'd appreciate it if you deleted those videos."
No reply.
Ah well. Finals were coming, he could do without the distraction of dealing with Rose. So for the next several weeks, he went to classes, he studied, he sleep walked through the parties at his frat. Oh, and he kept going to the gym to do his butt exercises, every night. Early on, he told himself he was doing it for purely pragmatic reasons, he wanted to be doing what he was told in case Rose called on him again, didn't want to give her any reason to release the videos. But... by the end of the semester he was pretty certain she wasn't going to hear from her again, but he was still going. His butt was getting noticeably firmer, rounder; he'd even gotten good at doing the squats. Maybe his new ass would be attractive to, you know, non-dickgirls. That's surely why he kept doing it, right?
But then there was the fact, honestly pretty revealing when he thought about it, that he almost never jerked off to anything other than thoughts of Rose anymore. It was funny, ever since he was young, masturbation time had always been a self apart from himself; he'd never admit he was doing it, obviously, and so he'd never have to admit what he was doing it to. He would do things like deny that he could ever be into, say, eating ass, and mean it, and then remember a week later that he'd jerked off to the idea a dozen times. And so it crept up on him, the realization that Rose was all he was thinking about when his hand went down to play with his cock.
Once he was aware of it, he tried to make himself stop, tried to make himself jerk off to the thought of Kim or just any other girl who didn't have a dick. And sometimes he would succeed in squeezing a mediocre orgasm out to the thought of another girl. More often, he'd give up and think about Rose again, feel his cock get harder when he gave into thoughts of her brilliant green eyes, the scar running down her face, and her big hard cock. The crazy thing was, even though he could barely get it up to the thought of any other girl, he could reliably jack off to thoughts of Rose three or four times in a day if he had the time, weekend days usually. First one of the day, he'd usually be entertaining fantasies, fairly implausible he knew, of nice, gentle sex between him and Rose, maybe her letting him be the one fucking her, maybe, if he were feeling submissive, him riding her cock, or even letting her fuck him gently. As the day went on and his dick got sorer, the fantasies got rougher, more violent, more... well, more like what being with Rose was actually like.
Sometimes he'd get himself over the point of no return with thoughts of Rose and then make himself think about someone else while the cum sprayed out of him, just so he could tell himself he wasn't thinking about her during that cum.
So the spring semester wound into summer break and he went home, started up at his old summer job again, grunt work for the municipal government, lot of filling cracks in the roads, lot of trash pickup. His mother was disappointed that he hadn't gotten an internship for the summer. In truth he hadn't even applied to any. That would've been a good idea, huh?
So he worked, he slept, and when he wasn't doing either of those he spent as much time as possible away from his parents' house. He lied and said he was hanging out with friends, but mostly he was driving around, or hanging out in parks, or loitering at the mall, or at the gym, doing the butt building exercises Rose had assigned him. Interacting with humans as little as possible, because at some point he'd stopped being Dylan, the old Dylan that everyone around here knew, and he didn't want them to notice.
He eventually just gave into the thoughts of Rose, accepted that she was all he could think about. He'd walk around the park imagining that she was walking him on a leash, go to the mall and linger by the women's clothes, imagine Rose forcing him to wear this skirt or that dress. Some days he thought he might be in love with her. Some days he was certain of it. Most days he knew better than that, but always she was on his mind.
The damn futa cum. He would often think, bitterly, that they only ended up having two of the threatened weekly sessions, and yet because of his fumbling attempts to get out of it he ended up receiving six total loads of futa cum, right into his rectum. Should've left well enough alone, he'd for sure be craving cock less if he hadn't bothered. But she'd emphasized so often that he was trapped, that he'd have to keep doing her bidding. Based on the information he had at the time, it made sense to try to escape... but why bother trying to defend his actions? It was a series of embarrassing failures that had gotten him fucked over and over. His manhood was doomed now.
Ah well, if his manhood was doomed, if he wasn't the old Dylan anymore... well, there were worse things. This summer he noticed, for the first time, that everyone else he worked with at the city seemed to hate his guts. Initially, he was confused by how that could've happened, but as the summer went on he kept having little flashbacks, remembering times he'd been condescending or rude to the others. It was funny, it seemed so alien to him now, but he really did used to think of himself as a superior being to these guys, because he was going to college while they mostly hadn't, because he was thoughtful and introspective and concocted grand theories of human nature while they were more focused on the day to day grind. How silly. The past year had been a crash course in exactly how much of a moron he was.
He'd occasionally run into people from high school, most of whom didn't seem to like him either. The girl he'd made cry by shit-talking her debate team performance was working at the Rally's on Vine, staring at him with angry eyes as she handed him his food. The brother of a girl who's titties he'd liked to grab was walking in the park with his girlfriend; he stared right at Dylan and began whispering to her, he watched the girl's face turn to contempt as he walked by.
Was it a feminized tendency, caring about these things? The old Dylan certainly would've thought so. The old Dylan thought so highly of himself, and if people had a problem with him, well, they were just losers. He didn't want to be like that anymore. He didn't know how to get all these people who disliked him to like him better, but he was determined to stop giving them new reasons.
He did as Rose said, and let his hair grow out. By the end of summer, his hair was long enough to tie into a stumpy ponytail. His mother complained about it at least once a day. Ah well. He'd be back at school soon enough. Staring in the mirror at it, he would often contemplate that even now that it was longer, it didn't look particularly like girl hair, just overgrown boy hair.
Did he want it to look like girl hair? Maybe.
