dogshitjay
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73: Helplessness
🕑 Added 2021-05-04 21:50:35 +0000 UTCIn the backseat of his car, still hard inside his lover, Stephen began to panic. Inho’s terrible sobs seemed impossibly loud – gut-wrenching and hopeless. This was not a normal sub drop reaction. Events reoriented in Stephen’s mind: Inho’s recklessness, his aggression. Nothing about this encounter had been normal. A fear he could not yet attribute gripped his chest, cold fingers squeezing his heart.
He pulled Inho’s hands away from his face, cupping his wet cheeks, “No, no baby, what’s wrong?” He fussed with Inho’s tears, trying to wipe them so he could look in his eyes, then kissing Inho’s forehead and temples. Like a confused dog who’s master has suddenly collapsed on the floor: overexcited, helpless, desperate to comfort. He wrapped his arms around Inho, pulling him close, “What’s wrong? Please, don’t cry. Inho.” Inho didn’t stop, wretched gasping wails wracking his body where he sat, still perched on Stephen’s cock.
“Inho, Inho look at me,” Stephen cupped his face, “Please stop crying. Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I-I...” He kissed Inho’s lips, careless of their trembling, “Please, Inho, I love you. I love you so much, please don’t cry.” Stephen’s chest was about to explode.
Inho froze a moment at his words, then flopped bonelessly back, curling into a small ball against the far door. Careless of the mess on his abs, Stephen followed him, trying to wrap himself protectively around Inho’s huddled form.
Finally, Inho spoke, his voice unrecognizable from his raw throat, “I want to go home.”
“Okay, okay baby, I’ll take you home.” Stephen grabbed one of the blankets from before and wrapped it around Inho, “We can go right now. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He wasn’t thinking clearly. With Inho tucked under the blanket, he got in the front seat and started driving. Along the way, Inho rustled in the back, pulling his clothes back on. Aside from the occasional sniffle, he didn’t speak. Stephen drummed nervously on the steering wheel.
It started to pour on the drive, and when they arrived on the dark suburban street, Inho sat a moment in the back, staring at his hands before speaking, “I think, I need space.” He opened the door and got out, “I’m sorry,” he said into the silence, before shutting the door and dashing to the building entrance. Stephen watched him go feeling powerless.
Driving through the torrent of rain, Stephen found a silent parkade and pulled in, winding to the top floor, tires squeaking on smooth concrete. He parked in a quiet corner and turned off the car before resting his forehead on the wheel between his hands.
What just happened? Did Inho just dump him? He said space but…This was a fucking mess. The night was not supposed to go like this. His chest constricted. This can’t be how it ends. But how to fix it, where did it go wrong? He just needed to...he just…
He banged his forehead on the steering wheel once, then again. His hands started to shake; his breathing was short and rapid. Full of hurt with nowhere to direct it, he screamed his frustration alone in his dark car, surrounded by damp cement.
When he was done, his throat was sore and his body was exhausted. He should go home.
A hand knocked on his window and Stephen jumped, his heart rate shooting back up. Thoughtlessly he lowered the window to a shadowy stranger.
“Hey man, can you spare five bucks?” The stranger immediately launched into a practiced spiel about a flat tire. Stephen was so shattered, he pulled out a fifty and handed it to the man wordlessly. The man pocketed it and sauntered off.
Stephen went home, pulled a bottle of Grey Goose from the bar, and poured a shot. He threw it back with a grimace. Cheap vodka burned, but there was nothing quite like it when your intentions were to drink you way to oblivion.
Another shot followed the first. I love you. He'd said I love you. It had been a while since he’d done that, and having it rejected was even more painful than he would have guessed. His own advice to himself bounced in his head: don't get too attached, don’t expect things. Definitely, don’t fall in love. The third shot went down easier.
Wasn’t Inho supposed to be a hookup? He snorted, remembering how he had thought Inho was a professional Dom in the local BDSM scene, how he’d offered him his business card like it was nothing.
He’d been warning himself all along, there were so many red flags that this wouldn’t work, and yet... Stephen didn’t want it to be over. If he could just get Inho to talk to him. Ideas swirled through his mind, like the vodka in the fourth shot. He couldn’t go back to Inho’s work, he shouldn’t text him, he probably shouldn’t send a gift. Was waiting really all he could do?
He slammed his fist on the granite countertop, making the bottle rattle. A fifth shot, and he pulled out his phone, typed an angry text, and hit send.
This wasn’t fair.
Two more shots, quick succession.
Why did Inho get to make all the decisions? Why didn’t he return his feelings?
He scrubbed his hand over his face after another shot, wincing when he touched his jaw. Inho had really slapped him hard. What even was that? Inho liked to be a brat in bed sometimes but, this had been more violent than fun. He should have noticed things were wrong.
His phone buzzed with a reply and he ignored it in favor of more shots. His thoughts were getting unfocused now. He dropped the shot glass on the counter and it skittered away. Scooping up the bottle instead, he collapsed on the couch, still in a ripped shirt. Still sticky. His phone started to ring as he was taking a swig from the bottle.
The next morning, he woke up to Chris’ voice beside him, “Hey, don’t you have to go to work?”
