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He can't remember everything that had happened during his capture. The bigger picture had been uncovered, but there were fragments. Corrupted files buried deep within the hard drive of his brain. The torn, impossible to decipher scribblings of a dementia patient.
The memories come to him in dreams. They're so abstract that he figures they're just that, dreams and not actual memories. If one could dream about everything from flying on the back of a pterodactyl to something as asinine as simply driving your car, it would make sense for his mind to create scenarios that didn't actually happen. Especially considering the trauma he'd already experienced and uncovered.
He can't feel his legs. That's the first thought he has, a weightlessness to his body as its pulled off the floorboards of that apartment.
There's no sound, like he's been sucked into the vacuum of space. It's unlike anything he'd ever felt. Not like the numbness that came with drugs. Not like the dissociation that came with anxiety.
He remembers, as he floats there, that when this had happened before, he'd been able to speak, been able to beg to be let down.
"I'll give you anything. You can screw me, or I'll screw you. Whatever you want."
There was agency in the prospect of that, at least. An exchange. One made under duress, but a bargain Daniel could offer and consent to. Dubiously, perhaps. But that was most of the current sexual exchanges in his life.
As he hangs here, limbs dangling, limp like that of a marionette puppet, held up by invisible strings, his agency is revoked.
The drugs would have worn off by now, but he doesnt suspect that's the reason for what happens.
It's the silent, still pull of Armand, rendering him silent, putty in his hands to bend to his will.
There is no brush of fingers. Not even suggestive words or a look or any sight at all. His vision is dark, eyes forced shut. Blind and deaf. It comes from an absence of anything.
Arousal. Instant, shooting through him like a lightning bolt. No gradual build up. Just the sudden, heavy weight of his cock, straining against the courdoury of his slacks, a material he hadn't been feeling at all until just now.
The groan that tries to leave his mouth is merely a vibration that dies in his vocal cords, strangled by an invisible hand.
He tries to command himself to move, and it's like he can feel his muscles straining under his flesh, but they don't move an inch.
What does move is his cock, twitching, a ghost like touch that creeps across the blood swelled flesh.
It's agonising. He doesn't want it. Not like this. He doesn't want any of this.
It's not like the other times. The times when he'd been drunk and said no then woken up with some chick riding him or some guy with his dick in his mouth. He'd been able to move at least. He'd been able to speak. Think.
All he could think about was the overencompassing feeling of his cock, throbbing and twitching, caught in the touchless grip of Amand's phantom fingers.
He can't do anything. Can't say anything. He can't even think about the fact that it feels better than any touch he's ever had. That despite how much he doesn't want it, it takes over him completely, flooding his brain better than any drug he's ever snorted or injected.
Euphoric. That's all he could describe it at if he could speak. Euphoric yet unwanted. Like the love of a God that would drop you into Hell thereafter.
He's close. So close. The usual tightness he would feel in his abdomen upon approaching an orgasm is not present. It is as if the feeling is every fibre of him. His entire being on the cusp of experiencing something earth shattering.
It doesn't come. It's gone with an instant, but his hardness remains.
A strangled gasp actually leaves him, and it's like a whole new shock to his system. Like someone hearing for the first.
He tries to make another noise, but it's fruitless.
Armand must have lost concentration for a moment there, or he'd wanted to hear Daniel's voice, if only for a brief second.
The feeling returns. The tug and pull on his cock, the approaching, the sheer euphoria.
And then it's gone. And then it's there again. And then it's gone.
He wants it to stop. This torture.
It comes back, stronger, and if Daniel could move, he would be thrashing like a man who's on fire. His skin is far too tight, like his flesh could burst at the seams, spilling out like sausage meat.
"Beautiful boy," Armand's voice hits his brain like the voice of God, melting all the agony of his body away, leaving nothing but pleasure.
The feeling is unlike anything he's ever experienced, and somehow every moment of climax that he's reached in his life, all rolled into one.
The first dry hump against his mattress at the age of eleven, the sweet shock of a boy discovering what masturbation was.
The first time he'd gotten a handjob from a chick in Middle School. The first blowjob in Junior High from the same chick, the surprise of her finger slipping into his ass, awakening something.
The first time he'd fucked a girl in his Senior year, the shame of how he'd goaded her into putting a bag over her head, how he'd come so hard at the sound of her crying.
The first guy who'd blown him in college, how he'd been too rough, how Daniel's come had coated his eyelashes and cheeks.
The first time he'd had a dick inside him, how he hadn't prepped properly and he'd bled a little. The overwhelming feeling of fullness, the way he hadn't even needed to touch himself to come across his belly. Every suck and fuck thereafter.
All of it leading up to this.
This one explosion. Excruciating and euphoric all at once. Every nerve ending bursting, a cosmic shift in the galaxy of his body.
He's suspended in that feeling, limbs tightening as he hangs in the air, crying out, spit foaming out of his mouth, eyes wide and jaw unhinged, tears pouring down his cheeks. Blood is draining from the wound Louis had left in his neck. The front of his pants wet with his seed. It's ugly. Disgusting. Beautiful
He's possessed.
The sickening thud of his body hitting the floorboards is the last thing he recalls before his world turns black.
X
"You were going to drain me, pal."
Armand looks at him with those doe, orange eyes, like butter wouldn't melt.
Daniel wants to kill him.