It must have been something in the tea.
James focusses on that thought, reminds himself of it over and over again, and chants it like a mantra in his mind. This isn’t real. It can’t be. It must have been the tea.
The alternative is unthinkable.
Pinned face-down over his own kitchen table, his trousers and boxers tugged down to mid-thigh, the pain and humiliation are only remotely bearable if it is because of the tea. If the heavy hand pressing between his shoulder blades is only there because of the tea, if the fingers squeezing deep bruises into his hip are only there because of the tea, and if the thick cock ripping him open is only…
The pain, at least, is more tolerable now, the shock fading to cold numbness. When he was first pushed down, after a surprisingly strong and unexpected left-hook knocked him for six, when that cock first forced its way dry into his unprepared and unstretched hole, the agony made him howl and buck against the hands holding him down. He could have fought free, could still fight, but he doesn’t want to hurt the other man.
It’s only something in the tea, after all.
That first stretch, dry and burning and too-much and oh-God-no, had been brutal and abrupt and nothing he could ever have imagined. The second, after a swift retreat and a teasing pause, had been worse, somehow, when James knew what to expect. Something tore deep inside after that, something that made James numb from the waist down, and in a heartbeat everything became slicker, smoother, freer.
He’s bleeding, quite obviously, both within and without. Severely.
He’ll need help urgently, but then the other man needs help too. It must be something in the tea.
James can’t help but think he should have known. From the moment they’d climbed back into the car after interviewing their suspect, when the other man tugged his tie free and complained about the heat. When he followed James inside the flat, grunting rather than speaking in answer to questions about their next steps. When the brightest blue eyes James has ever seen had been almost swallowed up by pupils the size of dinner plates.
Another particularly brutal thrust makes James gasp, a spike of pain briefly piercing the numbness, and silent tears start to stream down his face as the thrusting picks up pace. He could fight his way free even now, in spite of the blood loss and shock making him feel increasingly dizzy, but the last thing he wants is to hurt the other man when it really isn’t his fault.
And deep down, a part of James has always wanted this from him, has wanted to be taken apart and owned, body and soul. But with love, and passion, and consent. Not like this.
Never like this.
It could have been so different. It could have been sweet and tender, with soft touches and lingering kisses, two bodies entwined with barely a breath between them. Cool cotton sheets, rather than rough wood. Skin to skin, hearts beating rapidly yet perfectly in time, rather than the drag of rough cloth and James’s own heart threatening to jump out of his chest.
It works as a distraction of sorts, for a while, daydreaming of what should have been.
But all too soon there is more grunting and more thrusting, the pain creeping back through the numbness now, and James finds it increasingly difficult to breathe let alone think as the heavy hand presses down even harder. Whatever was in that tea was potent stuff, clearly, and he is so incredibly glad he’d only had water. Though perhaps if he had drunk the tea too, this wouldn’t hurt so much.
The man above him, the man holding him down and hurting him – raping him, a little voice whispers in the back of James’s mind, a voice he quashes brutally – suddenly stiffens and shouts in triumph, and, impossible as it may seem, James can feel the man’s release deep inside his damaged body. Hot and slick and God, James feels filthy both inside and out, but it must have been something in the tea.
Silence, then, apart from James’s own ragged gasps for breath. The hands are suddenly withdrawn from his body, and then with a sickening squelch the softening cock withdraws from him as well. James hates that he cries out at the sudden loss, even as he can feel the blood and semen spilling down his inner thighs.
He needs help badly, desperately, but so does the other man.
“Jesus Christ,” a horrified voice behind him whispers, broken and disbelieving. “Oh God, James, what’ve I done?”
James tries to lift his head, to turn, to reach for the other man, but his body refuses to cooperate, starting to shake violently. “Not your fault,” he manages to gasp in reply. “Something in the tea. Not your fault, Robbie.”
Footsteps, stumbling away from the table then out of the kitchen, followed by the slamming of the front door as Robbie flees into the night. James tries to give chase, but his legs won’t hold his weight, and he slides to the cold floor with a moan, fumbling in his pocket until his trembling hands find his mobile.
He calls for help, careful to keep the emotion from his voice as he requests an ambulance for himself and another, along with police back-up, to search for a distraught man on unknown substances. To search for Robbie, who will be blaming himself, hating himself and beating himself up, when none of it is his fault.
The world fades in and out, and with every blink it becomes harder to keep his eyes open. Perhaps, if he sleeps for a while, he’ll forget everything: he doesn’t want to remember this hell. Perhaps it wasn’t real in the first place. It isn’t real. How can this cruel nightmare possibly be the lasting memory he’ll have of his first time with Robbie?
It could have been sweet and tender, in another life. It could have been love.
It was the tea, they tell James much later when he wakes in the hospital, body and mind blessedly numb, memories mercifully vague. It was all because of the tea, but Robbie’s body is already growing cold in the mortuary, his wrists slashed with his own pocket knife.
It was only something in the tea.