#hellspains

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

@hellspains

What to give a spoilt boy?

Sure, Iago definitely wasn’t the stereotype of a spoilt rich kid, and Jacob clearly didn’t pass as your typical Sugar Daddy, but there was no denying that he had spoilt Iago rotten in those past few weeks. They were beyond those clichés. What they were instead, Jacob didn’t know. Didn’t bother to ask or ponder over, maybe because he was too afraid of the answers it would bring, the demons it would conjure up. He didn’t know, didn’t want to know, because it didn’t matter what they were to each other.

What mattered was that, maybe for the first time he could think, Jacob was... happy.

It all had to escalate for them to reach this point, but that was irrelevant now. They had just moved together. Into a loft that Jacob had bought a while ago already, before he’d met the boy from across the hall – and he didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d moved in earlier, if he hadn’t let Iago in on Christmas Eve – but thankfully there had been a row of delays in the interior works. And that had made the timing just perfect.

It was their space now. Untroubled by the weight of old sins. Without ballast. Without burdens.

It was theirs. It was new. It was perfect. A fresh start. A new life. It was something they shared together that wasn’t just a mattress or a bottle of whiskey. For the first time.

No, what they were to each other didn’t matter. That he was happy now was. And he could only pray that Iago was happy, too. He didn’t need a label.

Jacob was happy, and that made him generous. He’d saved up a remarkable little fortune that he’d mostly left  untouched. He wore tailored suits at work, drove a luxurious, but surprisingly not flashy, fast car. The loft was in the better area of the city, stuffed with the understated luxury of chrome, leather and polished hardwood, and the interior designer Jacob had hired was the best. But other than that, he had never found occasions to spend the money he made in a more than pragmatic way. Whiskey had been his only guilty pleasure.

But now he had a reason. And a very good one.

Jacob had begun to enjoy spoiling Iago. Or maybe that was what he told himself to justify it. He just couldn’t say no. He was weak.

He had let Iago keep the obnoxious cat. And the bird. And the fucking hedgehog, too.

He bought gifts. Sex toys. Clothes, too. Whenever Iago pointed at something when they were out, Jacob made sure he would get it.

It was because his smiles were so rare, and the sadness in his eyes - whenever the anger didn’t show - so very deep. Buying things and spoiling him was a good way to coax at least a few of them out. To make Iago temporarily happy. It didn’t keep the nightmares at bay. It didn’t make the fights easier, and they had a lot of them, but it was something. And maybe it was a bribe. A way to make himself irreplaceable, but Jacob didn’t dare think too long about it. Because the idea that one day, Iago couldn’t be there anymore, was too terrifying.

It was a way to say I love you when the words themselves were so unwelcome. Words like dynamite when they should be like rose petals and summer breeze.

But it did pose an unexpected problem, Jacob realized. The faster Iago’s birthday approached, the more he had to ask himself: How to spoil a boy you spoilt every day?

With presents and kisses. With touches and attention.

Jacob wasn’t a romantic. And he wasn’t good at expressing his emotions. But all the relief and gratitude he felt every day found their outlet in gifts. Iago just had to name it, it usually only took a few hours for Jacob to get it for him.

They already lived with three animals. The man who had once been so steadfast and steely would forget how to say no whenever he looked into a pair striking blue eyes that was a gift in its own.

Every wish Iago would have – although it sometimes did take some convincing – Jacob would fulfil.

Which made the boy’s oncoming birthday quite a challenge.

No, Jacob wasn’t romantic. He didn’t know how to make confessions of love that would be unwelcome, anyway. He didn’t know how to do the grand gesture. And he was at a loss whenever he thought about possible gifts. It was the first birthday they would celebrate together. In their loft. It had to be special.

Roses. Clothes. Cat litter. Sure. He could do that.

But he wanted – needed - something special.

Considering potential birthday gifts had put an immense pressure on Jacob, and he was running out of time.

The idea struck him after one of their arguments. And as always, it developed from something ridiculous and teasing to something fiery and explosive. But it gave him an idea.

So, when midnight came, and the finger on the clock jumped, when it was officially Iago’s birthday, he pulled out a box. In it, Iago would find a blindfold and bottle of whiskey. But the latter was for Jacob. To get really drunk before the actual surprise would be revealed. Because his gift would be a true sacrifice.

With a smile that was a little too sheepish for a man of his build, Jacob leaned forward to kiss his boy’s lips.

“Happy birthday. Open it.”

Yes, this would be a true sacrifice. Embarrassing. Humiliating. Downright silly.

Jacob would sing.

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

@hellspains

Only a few months since Marcus’ life had been turned upside down.

Only a few months since he had met Iago, and had let him into his life. Since his morals had been put up to a test, since the foundation of his whole being had been shaken.

Only a few months, but he felt like a new man.

Maureen had moved out entirely, after a rather unfortunate incident that involved Marcus and Iago and the kitchen counter... and a very surprising visit of Marcus’ wife to figure things out and reconcile again. They hadn’t figured things out. They had been no reconciliation.

Instead, she had demanded the divorce. And Marcus couldn’t even blame her.

Iago had moved in. Or rather, he had never left.

And Marcus had never felt so young and liberated before.

The boy was a hurricane, like eight tons of dynamite and fireworks packed in the fragile body of a twink – it was a word Marcus had learnt recently - and his simple touch could scorch and burn, but never had Marcus felt so… alive. So young. So free.

It was a different life he lived now. A challenging life.

Iago was hard to please and hard to entertain, but Marcus did his best.

Only a few months, and Marcus was entirely obsessed already, and willing to fulfil the boy’s every wish. He was putty in those small hands. When they roamed over his body. When they tugged at his lapels and his tie. Pulled him into dark corners, into sex shops and into the bedroom. When they teased parts of his body Marcus hadn’t known were so sensitive. He’d learnt to sin. He had learnt debauchery. He had found Heaven and Hell in Iago’s blue eyes.

Iago had dragged him into obscene shops. He had put up a tally. He had shown Marcus games he’d been fully unaware of, dirty, filthy, lewd and wonderful games. And never had he come so hard than the day the word had slipped so innocently from Iago’s lips, in the most inconvenient, inappropriate moment Marcus could have imagined, balls deep in the heavenly tight ass. Daddy. It was shameful. It was embarrassing. But it was something Iago called him often now, and often in this sweet little voice that drove Marcus crazy. Innocent and wondering and young. Every argument or debate ended quickly whenever Iago used that voice and called him daddy. Iago got what he wanted. And Marcus’s brain short-circuited every time the word fell from Iago’s lips. So innocent. So dirty.

He was wading in sin and guilt, and Marcus knew it. Iago was his new religion, his new saviour, and he hadn’t even gathered the courage to go to church on Christmas. Instead, the day was spent half or fully naked, with entirely indecent cookies and tinsel. And the dozens of toys he had gotten Iago for Christmas. Most of them had made Marcus flush a deep red.

He was lost, but Iago led him through the darkness, through the chaos of lust. He was a sinner now, but never had sinning felt so wonderful. Iago guided his hands to explore. Iago told him what to do with his body and body parts. Iago told him how to fall deeper into debauchery and deprivation and sin.

Iago told him what to do with his money, too.

It was hard to think of something to buy the boy for his birthday. Marcus wanted it to be spectacular. Not just boxes full of plugs and cuffs and lingerie and vibrators and a dozen things Marcus still didn’t have names for. Things that vibrated or could be inflated. Things made of rubber and silicone in strange, alien shapes. It had to be more meaningful.

He’d made breakfast, although Iago usually refused to eat it. With a tray full with coffee and orange juice and chocolate strawberry French toast, Marcus entered the bedroom when it was almost noon, letting his angelic little demon sleep as his heart desired. The tray was placed on the bedside table, and Marcus leaned down to kiss Iago awake. He wore his best suit. He wanted to impress, after all.

“Good morning. And happy birthday.”

There hadn’t been much Marcus could think of to give his boy. Iago was still a riddle. A miracle. An enigma. But he had taken a few days off, had bought two plane tickets and chartered a small yacht someplace warm. It was still too cold up where he lived to go on a trip with his own boat. That would have to wait. He just hoped it wouldn’t disappoint. It was a small boat, compared to it.

But all he needed now was for Iago to accept the gift.

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

@hellspains

Milton didn’t truly care about celebrations and festivities. Christmas. Easter. Birthdays – unless it was his own – didn’t mean anything to him. But they were a tool. The perfect weapon. It was an instrument of reward and punishment.

Some birthdays were ignored. And some would be celebrated. Moderately, of course. But Milton could be a generous man if he was pleased.

And Iago had pleased him greatly.

Milton couldn’t deny that he’d had his doubts the night Iago had begged him for the collar, if the street whore could be a good slave. But Iago had exceeded all of his expectations. He was so different. He was so breathtaking. Unconventional. He was creative and like a fresh breeze in Milton’s little collection. Iago shone bright and hot and dangerous. Like a natural force beneath Milton’s cold, manicured fingers.

Iago deserved a reward.

Even before breakfast, Milton called for the slave to meet him in the salon. Already sipping a first cup of tea, fully dressed and groomed, he welcomed Iago with a stiff nod.

“I am pleased with you, little slave. And I have a surprise for you,” he purred, his lips pulling into a smirk as he put the cup down and stood. “Come with me.” Milton led Iago out of the room and through decadent hallways to a part of the mansion Iago had not been allowed to see yet. This was his first birthday here under Milton’s rule. A special occasion, but it wouldn’t be wise to go all out. As much as Milton’s fingertips itched. Milton had pondered long over the boy’s gift. It had been costumes and lessons for Christmas, and he already knew that, at some point in the future, he would take Iago to a slave auction to pick his very own little pet. Milton could already feel the thrill of anticipation. It would be magnificent and exhilarating to see Iago train his own pet. The boy could be cruel. He had a cold streak that reminded Milton of himself. Less controlled and more feral, of course, but it was familiar. A darkness to be nurtured and cultivated.  And he was curious to see what Iago would make of such a difficult task. Maybe the pet wouldn’t survive long, Milton was aware of it. But it was a calculated risk.

“I have kept the drawings from your old apartment. And while I cannot say that I... appreciate all of them, I am aware that it was something you took great joy in. That is why I decided to set up a small, but well equipped studio for you in the East Wing. I do expect you to ask permission before going there, of course. And it is needless to say that this does not dispense you from any of your daily duties, but it is yours to use whenever you have some spare time. I might even be tempted to let some slave model for you, if that would be required.” He opened the door for Iago as soon as they reached the room, a neatly organized art studio with easel and work bench, and everything from graphite to paint thinner.  Milton usually didn’t open doors for his slaves. It was a gesture unheard of. But this was a gift, and he would revel in his own generosity. “And who knows? Maybe, after some practicing, you could even sell some of your work. While it is...” his lips thinned, “... certainly not my preferred style, I might let an employee of one of my subsidiaries specialized on contemporary art inspect your work.” He smirked again. “As I said, I can be a very generous man when I am pleased.”

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

bearings & burdens || Closed

Shackles didn’t bother Jacob anymore. He was used to them. Was used to the collar around his neck and the short leash they used to lead him from one room to the next. He was used to the procedure of getting his hands tied behind his back. He never struggled, never disobeyed, never complained. But those restraints weren’t necessary.

Jacob was well-trained and obedient. Jacob was docile. But he was also bulky. He was also strong. And some of the guards, he knew, feared him. Feared what he could do. What he was capable of. Potentially. Hypothetically. He took a little pride in that, but wasn’t sure why. He had other things to be proud of. It showed in his posture, in the way he wore his collar, the way he held his head high. Shackled and collared and stunted, Jacob was still a proud creature. An impressive creature.

But he was peaceful. Relatively. The injections sometimes made him aggressive and unpredictable; those steroids and hormones everyone talked about. Although Jacob wasn’t even sure what those were. The doctors and scientists used those words. All Jacob knew, all he really had to know, was that they made him better at what he was so damn good at. That they made him fuck better and longer and harder, made him produce more of his precious seed.

So he took his pills, endured the endless injections and needles and examinations without complaints. Why would he complain? All of it was necessary, they said. And he had a great purpose. He contributed to the survival of mankind, no less. That was something to be proud of, wasn’t it?

He had fucked his way through an anonymous mass of bearers. Had impregnated hundreds. He made good, strong babies, they said, and praised him for his performances and achievements.

He was shown off. Sometimes for entertainment only, but he didn’t really care. There were people, he knew, who paid for seeing him fuck. For seeing him being milked. For being fucked by him, even. Because Jacob was a champion. A star. A premium breeding bull.

Sometimes he was lent or sold for a day or a week. Was put in cars and planes to fuck at other places in other countries, but that word was just as abstract and meaningless as so many others. He wasn’t sure what countries were. Places far away, he concluded. Jacob had listened to the scientists. They talked about a gene pool. But whenever Jacob arrived at those far away places, there was no pool. But it didn’t matter. As long as there was an ass to breed, whether his seed would take or not, as long as there was a dummy to fuck into or a machine to release the constant strain and pressure in his balls, Jacob didn’t complain. His balls felt always tight. Always full. Always straining. And after a day without relief, things started to get nasty. It was very painful, he had found out. He wasn’t allowed to touch himself and waste his cum, so he didn’t touch himself. But once or twice, they had forgotten about him, and Jacob had found himself in agony.

But they took good care of him, most of the time. They let him fuck. They milked him dry when there was no bearer to fuck, with machines or dummies, it was all the same. They fed him. They gave him a bed. They kept him comfortable. There was really no need to complain.

He did listen, though. Tried to make sense of all the strange words. Tried to give them meaning.

Jacob was smart, they said. But they would never let him use his head. Only his dick. Nobody needed a smart and strong alpha male, he had heard them say.

But thoughts were fleeting when he was pumped full of those hormones, whatever they were. Jacob’s head was filled with only one thing as he was led down the hallway, naked and bound. Only one thing. The one thing he was good at. The one thing he was praised for. The one thing that was his purpose. The one burning need. The one tormenting imperative. He needed to fuck, and he needed to fuck soon.

His balls felt heavy and swollen, and his massive cock swung with every step along the way. In this state, before the mating, after the injections and pills, Jacob felt all too aware of his body. All too aware of his need. Restless and tense and bursting with energy and lust.

He was lead into yet another room. Jacob had seen many rooms in his life, but they all looked the same after a while. Most of them had beds. Beds were good for fucking.

This new bearer, though, made Jacob frown. He was slender. Small. With narrow hips. So very different from the ones he had been paired with in the past. He didn’t really look as if he could carry Jacob’s strong babies. He didn’t look happy, either. He looked… nervous?

Why didn’t he look happy?

Jacob was a champion. And what they did here was good. Useful. Important. It was necessary for the survival of the human race.

Maybe Jacob was just seeing things. He shouldn’t try to think when he was about to mate and fuck and breed. There was no place for thinking here. And no need, either.

Surely the boy would soon relax.

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

The Original Sin || Closed

@hellspains

„This is Iago.“

The words barely processed, the thick cloud of disbelief making it impossible for them to sink in. Disbelief. Confusion. Shock. And something deeper, something hidden, something Jacob would always deny. A veiled terror, hiding in the darkest corners of his soul. A terror that didn’t stem from the blossoming jealousy that stung in his heart, but from worry.

Faulkner’s hair was grey now. Not just the silver peppered temples Jacob had stared at so often in silent awe when he’d been younger. The Mayor was aging. But he was by far not an old man. His eyes still held the same ruthless steel, the merciless hardness Jacob had come to fear and admire at the same time.

If this was what Jacob suspected it to be, if Faulkner had really taken in another stray to turn into a tool and asset, there had to be a reason. A selfish interest. The boy didn’t look strong. But then again, neither had Jacob. Was he here to be turned him into another assistant? The new right hand? Was Jacob not enough anymore? The feeling of insufficiency that flooded his chest was numbing. Was he not good enough?  A tool to be simply replaced despite the blood and sweat and pain his transformation into something bigger, something better, had cost him? Or was it simply something that would look good on the propaganda channels and newspapers? The generous benevolent politician with the professional smile.

Jacob’s eyes wandered from Faulkner to the boy on the chair. Scrawny little thing with bright eyes. Uncombed. Probably unwashed, too. Malnourished and most likely too small for his age. Another wave of shock hit him when he realized that many years ago, this boy on the chair, feet dangling and eyes wide and curious, underweight and dirty, had been him. A realization that caused another avalanche of jealousy and terror roll through his body. A jealousy that was entirely selfish and desperate. And a terror that fed from memory and experience, from the knowledge of what Faulkner was capable of.

For now, selfishness and territorial jealousy won, and he stared at the boy with unveiled hostility, a curt nod all Jacob could muster in response to the introduction.

“This is Jacob, Iago,” Jacob heard Faulkner say, his voice smooth and carefully modulated as always. A politician’s voice, used to feed lies and promises to everyone who wanted to believe them.

“I adopted him, too, many years ago. Say hello to your big brother, Iago.”

Those words sounded like a guillotine falling. Sharp and quick and efficient. Cutting through bones and flesh. Words that confirmed Jacob’s worst suspicions, and he wasn’t even sure who he was more concerned about: this boy or himself. But this was a dog-eat-dog world, and there was no place for another bloodhound. No place for another lap dog even. If Jacob had learnt anything in his life, before Faulkner and after, it was that the only person he could truly rely on, the only person he could truly trust, was himself. And despite his loyalty – or maybe even because of it – it was his own status and life he worried most about.

The boy was an intruder. Unwelcome. Useless. Unnecessary. His presence here would only bring pain. To himself and Jacob.

And thus, he decided that he hated the little orphan already.

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

219

@hellspains

219 days.

219 days since Iago had left.

219 days since something inside Jacob had died.

219 days of the same dead routine. Dull and empty and without sense or purpose or joy.

He woke up before the alarm rang. In a loft he had bought for the two of them. A loft that was too big and too empty now. Too stuffed with memories. Memories of Iago lounging on the couch. Iago drinking from that one mug. Iago bent over the kitchen counter. Iago sprawled out on the bed that was now empty.

Iago’s ghost was everywhere.

He woke up. Without Iago.

He worked out, the same routine since day zero, keeping to the plan. To the schedule. At first, because in his hopelessly hopeful idiot brain, Jacob had thought Iago would return. He’d wanted to be ripped and strong for the day Iago would come back. Then, as hope slowly faded after eating him alive, he’d kept the routine because he didn’t know anything else anymore.

He went to work. Kept to his desk most of the time. The desk under which Iago had crouched with a mischievous naughty grin. The desk at which the boy had clawed for leverage as Jacob had slammed into him. His sweet little intern.

He got out of work. He drank. He fucked some interchangeable boys, didn’t even bother with any form of small talk anymore. Sometimes he just paid. More often than not, the wrong name slipped through his lips.

Work. Drink. Fuck. Sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

219 days of the same dreadful routine.

Jacob hadn’t meant to count. It had just happen. Somewhere along the way. And now he couldn’t stop.

219 days of struggle.

Somehow, Jacob managed to survive.

No distractions meant that he could bury himself in work, too. Which he did. He was successful still. Maybe more than ever. He didn’t enjoy it. But it gave him something to do. He didn’t enjoy the meetings and the conversations. He didn’t enjoy the fake smiles and mechanical handshakes.

And so he hadn’t looked forward to this evening either. To this fancy business dinner he’d been invited to. He was hired to be the security consultant for the big event they were planning. Nothing he hadn’t done before. He would provide the technology. He would provide the men. He would provide the general feeling of safety and security with his presence, standing tall and threatening in his suit for everyone to see. It was profitable. It was prestigious.

He hadn’t looked forward to this fancy business dinner and the rich, pretentious men he would meet. But he was well prepared, as always. 

But the moment he saw him, dragged along like a trophy or pet, eyes dull and empty, shockingly emaciated, collared and dressed like a whore, Jacob forgot about the meticiulous presentation he had worked on for days. Forgot about the men surrounding him. The man by Iago’s side. And the name slipped without thought, a whisper like a prayer, disgust and shock, pain and longing wavering in his voice before he could even greet his business partners.

“Iago...” 

[offoxesandotherstrangeanimals]

Private Practice

@hellspains

The Hippocratic oath was something Marcus Hastings took very seriously. But then again, he took everything seriously. He was a serious man, after all. Dutiful. Precise. Meticulous.

Boring.

Even Marcus himself knew he was boring. A little unimaginative, at times. His life had been a steady straight path. Without adventurous turns. Without spontaneous shortcuts. But in the end, that didn’t matter.

He was successful. Wealthy. Lovely grand house in the better part of town. Maybe not a villa. Maybe not a mansion. But impressive nevertheless.

Marcus’ career had been exemplary. Fourty-six, Marcus was chief physician at the largest hospital in town, married to a beautiful woman from a wealthy family. Maureen was trying to get pregnant for a while now. With the help of yet another doctor. A doctor that wasn’t Marcus. Without success, so far, and the tension was wearing him down. He wasn’t even sure he had wanted a baby in the first place. But a child was all that was missing in his picture-perfect family portrait. He had everything a man could dream of, right?

Maureen & Marcus. That had looked good on the wedding invitations. 

They still looked good together at fancy dinner parties or charity events, all tuxedo and sparkling evening dress and her teeth bleached to perfection. They still looked good together on the solid-silver-framed pictures on the grand piano. 

They didn’t look all that good anymore behind the surface and the facade. Maureen seemed obsessed. And he spent more and more time at work, trying to escape the suffocating atmosphere of his lovely, impressive house with the iron gate. It was something the pretty solid-silver-framed photographs didn’t show. His job was all too convenient in that matter, of course.

But once in a while, he needed to get home.

Hands on the steering wheel, Marcus planned the inevitable small talk ahead, the heavy and leaden conversation that would unfold over a glass of red wine and the roast Maureen would have prepared. He felt like a stranger in his own house these days.

Marcus almost missed the shadow on the side of the road, so lost in thoughts and self-pity. He almost drove ahead, oblivious of the young man slumped against a wall.

Almost.

The Hippocratic oath was something Marcus took very seriously, so when he saw him, the bloody mess in the periphery of his vision, he hit the brakes and pulled over. Losing no time. Quick and efficient routines kicking in. He was a dutiful doctor after all, had worked endless emergency room hours in his life. He knew what to do. And he knew how to do it quick.

With a frown, Marcus approached the boy, crouched in front of him to check the vitals. 

“Don’t move. I am a doctor. I can help help you.” 

Soft and modulated voice, professional and smooth. As efficient as his observing looks and touches.

The boy seemed relatively stable, but in no condition to walk or tell Marcus much about what had happened. He seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, bruised up and beaten. Blood pooling from what looked like a stab wound.

Marcus couldn’t leave him here. The injury was severe. Maybe not life-threatening itself, but a sepsis could kill the boy nevertheless, if this would not be treated.

The stranger was young, not even legal probably. Sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen at best. And he didn’t look like he could afford an insurance. He didn’t look as if he could afford a hospital bill. Or as if he truly wanted to answer all the questions that would be asked whenever a stab wound was involved. This was no accident.

The Hippocratic oath was something Marcus took very seriously, and so he did what every good doctor would do. He would help. He would take the young man home and tend to his wounds, without bureaucracy and questions.

It even saved Marcus from the awkward conversation.

Maureen wouldn’t be happy.

[guessyoudodgedabulletwithme]

“You think you can kill me?” (Hellspains)

“I know I can.”