Chapter 3

It felt like forever before they made it to the man’s house, for it was not exactly located within the city limits. It was not a nice house and looked as though no one had lived there for years. The grass would definitely be up to Peter’s knees and the white fence surrounding it was leaning and completely torn apart in some places. The front window  looked as if a ball had been thrown through it, and the man had apparently not had the time to buy a new one or hire someone to fix it.

All you have to do is give him his fuck, and you’ll be free to go home. And you can tell your mates all about this place and then you can call someone to fix the guy’s house up. No harm done, none at all. You’ll just walk out and go back home.

    “Well?” the man asked and stopped his car.

    “Well what?” Peter responded, staring out of his window.

    “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

    “Beautiful?”

    “The house. It’s gorgeous.”    

    “Yeah...”

    “Get out of the car.”

Slowly, Peter did.

    “It’s not mine.”

    “Oh?”

    “I’m renting it.”

    “Oh.”

    “So no one will bother us.”

    “Oh.”

No one was going to bother them. What did that mean? Of course, no one wanted to be interrupted when they were having sex, but why take the time to point it out? It made no sense to Peter whatsoever.

As the door opened, the man took Peter’s hand and twined their fingers together, causing Peter to hold back a cringe. The man led the way down a narrow hallway, presumably to his bedroom. The house was dark everywhere, even the walls were a shadowy color. Little dust clouds were rising from the carpet with every step they took. Peter was looking forward to getting out of here as soon as possible. This was an absolutely dreadful place.

    “You’re not as pretty as the other whores,” the man said suddenly as he fumbled with is pocket for the key to the bedroom.

    “I’m sorry,” Peter responded, not entirely sure how else to respond. Other whores? Apparently this man was a regular with the street walkers. It would have been pretty obvious to anyone else, who in their right mind would choose to sleep with this man. He was disgusting, not to mention the fact that he had just picked up an eighteen year old boy off the street.

    “No, it’s better that way,” the man smiled as he opened the door. The room was surprisingly brighter than the rest of the house. The windows were closed, but they were clean and the curtains were drawn, casting an eery glow along the pale yellow walls. The floor was not as dusty, and the bed had not been made that morning. Abruptly, Peter was pushed forcefully across the room, his knees buckling once he reached the bed. The man climbed over him, shrugging his jacket off of his shoulders, and straddled his waist. Peter closed his eyes tight as he felt a gnarly hand creeping up under his shirt.

-------------

It was a quiet night in July when Sirius had come over. He’d held Peter’s hand as he walked the way down to Peter’s basement bedroom. He was always gentle with Peter, knowing how naive and how fragile he really was. Peter always appreciated this in his friend, for he could not have asked for anything better in a lover.

They worked through Sirius’ fingers together, Peter chewing his bottom lip hard, unaware as to whether or not he liked this brand new sensation. A chorus of “alright Peter?” was constantly flowing from Sirius’ mouth, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face, more than willing to stop if it was needed.

But it was not needed, and soon enough Peter was lowering himself down onto Sirius, far too fast, causing him to hiss. Sirius eyes were huge, as were Peter’s. And suddenly Sirius’ hand was on his cheek, rubbing very slightly, showing Peter how much he was cared for, how much Sirius felt for him.

As Peter started moving, Sirius gripped his hip lightly, not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt him. As they rode through their first encounter together, Sirius’ calloused hand never left Peter’s face. It remained as they both got lost in what they were doing, when the room was filled with their soft moans, always careful not to let anyone else hear them. Sirius’ hand was there as an anchor, holding him down, bringing Peter back to earth throughout everything. Making sure that he would not float away.

-------------


    “Stop,” Peter said, surprised at how solid his voice sounded with all of the strain now put on his lower half, and the profuse slaps on his face. The man didn’t listen. He smacked Peter again with the palm of his hand, much harder than he had before. Peter could already feel the bruise forming over his eye. He gritted his teeth and hit the man back without breaking his rhythm. It was the only defense that he had. But it was a bad idea.

    The man shoved Peter away, making him wince. The man crawled over him, gripping at his neck, cutting off all of his air. Peter clawed at his hand. This had not happened to him before. This would not be good. The man growled down at him, causing Peter’s eyes to grow wide. The words coming out of the man’s mouth didn’t even sound like words anymore. Peter’s vision was tunneling, and right before everything went black, he could breathe again.

    Peter choked and gulped at the air, turning on his side only to be forced on his back again.

    “Listen to me, whore,” the man said intensely. “How. Dare. You. I thought you’d be a good little whore, but you’re not. You’re just like the others. Get up. Get the fuck up.” Every natural pause was punctuated with a resound slap to the face, causing Peter to whimper in pain. The man tangled his fingers in the boy’s hair and pulled hard, pulled him into a standing position. Then he pushed him by the shoulders, making him fall to his knees again.
    
    “Get up!” he screamed, aiming a kick at Peter’s stomach. Peter doubled over, his hands scrabbling over his midsection. He felt the hand in his hair yanking him up again. Peter’s world was spinning and he was sure he was about to vomit right on the man’s floor. He was going to die.

    The grip on his hair did not stop until the basement door was open and Peter was shoved down the stairs. He crashed to the ground, unable to stop tears from falling from his eyes, sure that some bone was now out of place.
    
    “Why are you crying?” the man asked in a sickly sweet voice, kneeling beside the broken boy, stroking along his hair and his neck. “Aren’t you happy here?”
    
    That’s when Peter passed out. He wasn’t going home. He was going to die.