By the time Stefan got home, he was shattered.
Exhausted and feeling sick, he dragged himself up the stairs. The junkie on the second floor yelled and offered a gram for a f**k. The neighbour with the swastika had painted another, bigger and bolder over Yannis’ words. And Stefan’s hands shook on the cage as he bolted it in place behind the door, and rested his forehead against the bars.
“Sick,” he whispered. “Sick, sick, sick, sick-sick-sick-sick.”
Because he wanted to go back.
“Can’t. Don’t.”
Here he was, leaning against the bars on his own front door, and telling himself not to go back to a house to be f****d by random men, to be locked naked in chains and feel endless c***s sliding in and out of him, to have c*m and blood and lube rubbed into his skin like f*****g moisturiser—
Bac
