Once again, this is AU, OOC, abuse, violence, etc. If that bothers you please do not read. I find the rude and cruel remarks absolutely disgusting, and they will not make my writing or my stories go away. Quite the opposite happens. So, do not read them. If that means no one comments, so be it. It's that simple. :) Oh yeah, its Justins POV. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I’m sitting on the toilet seat, holding the mirror I usually use when I shave so I can apply peroxide to the scrapes on my jaw and cheekbones. I toss the piece of toilet paper I’d been using to smear the medication on my bruised face and mop up some of the dried blood, into the garbage next to the sink. Wincing, I study my beaten face, the shiner and bruised cheeks, before reaching for another handful of toilet paper and continue with the work. At least I can recognize my face now. It had looked awful last night. My ribs ache, and holding the mirror up make them throb more. I don’t feel like holding my arms up, that’s for sure. I feel like sleeping. I bet I have a concussion. Slumping, I set the mirror on the bath mat and roll my pant leg up gingerly, checking the dark bruises. My knee is swollen and tender. Actually, my whole body is swollen and tender. Still staying slouched over, I reach my good hand around to feel around the small of my back and up my spine a little. He must have hit me with a belt or something at some point- there were raised welts and heavy slashes from metal buckles and leather. My left hand won’t close. The middle finger is jammed and the ring finger looks sprained or broken, the tendon snapped some where in my hand. I could tell by the way it was raised up crookedly through the skin. There was a deep slash running from my temple to my lip, which was laid open. It still oozed thick blood, but for the most part it was on its way to heeling. I slide one hand under my shirt, pressing and palpating my ribs to check for cracked or broken ones. I almost yelp as my hand just graces my left side, two ribs down from the top, and right in the middle. They actually feel separated, torn apart from one another. I figured as much. He’d broken my ribs before, so by now I knew what the symptoms were. But I’d never actually felt them when they seemed literally pulled apart. I pause, hissing through my teeth and taking a few moments to catch my breath and gain composer. I hurt like hell. The bathroom is splashed with bright colors and I have trouble focusing. I’d passed out last night; now I knew I had to stay awake for a little bit, at least until I was sure my brain wasn’t swelling or anything. That had actually happened to me before too. He’d slung me into the doorframe and my head had connected with this loud, sick sounding crack. I’d sat there stunned. Then this clear fluid just started pouring from my nose, and I’d held my hand out letting it drip into my palm. Then I just passed out. The doctors told me later that when you receive massive blows to the head, like I had, your brain will swell sometimes and brain-fluid leaks out of your nose to give your brain room to swell with out being crushed by your skull. Isn’t that sick? I wish I knew how to make it stop though. My doctor bills were costing too much, and the questions they asked were getting too personal. How many times could you go to the emergency room and say you got into a fight at a club before they realized you were lying? How many times did you have to be reeled in by the same person, your blood on their hands and literally lingering with death before the doctors realized what was really going on? Sometimes, I guess I think it’s my fault we beat each other up like this. He says it’s for my own good, and he looks at me so apologetically and gently I have to wonder who’s right. Maybe it is for my own good. It feels like it sometimes. I wish we could both stop it. I fight back. I’ve done the same damages to him before. It’s not like I don’t. But it’s getting pretty sick now. I like it, all right? I get off on having the shit beaten out of me by my boyfriend, and if I didn’t maybe it’d be easier to tell someone the truth about it. Yes, it’s sick as fuck. We both know it. When we’re with everyone else we act like nothing ever happened. We tell our friends the same thing that we tell the doctors- we got into a fight at a bar. We got mugged. Something, anything. The excuse doesn’t matter, as long as it’s made. I doubt they’d want to hear the truth any way. What did they want us to say? The actual truth was, well, disgusting like I already said. Why did he have a shiner and bruised cheeks? Did they really want to know? Did they want to hear how I straddled him and tied him down to his bed? Did they really want to know that I slapped the shit out of him? He doesn’t want to be like his father. That’s the last thing in the world he’d ever want to be. And I’m telling him that’s just what he’s become, boxing in his face until he’s roaring with the pain and moaning with the pleasure and ecstasy of it. That’s right. The pleasure and ecstasy of it. Then I ripped his pants off and fucked him senseless, with out lube and I was glad it hurt both of us because I needed the pain just as much as he did. And he was there, groaning and contracting with his own orgasm as he came, calling me a sick fuck and telling me how he would beat the shit out of me when he got untied. Which was good, because that’s what I wanted. Yes, and then, then, when he does get free he pounds my sides in with a chair leg and at some point we’re just kissing and tasting my blood, our tongues rubbing roughly against one another, and he’s digging his nails into my shoulder blades. We’re laying on the ground, my back half propped up against the wall with nothing on but my pants and he’s on top of me, his boxers back on and loose on his bruised up hips. My nails are ripping down his bare chest, leaving bright etches of red, and he moves down, sucking my neck. He’s moaning, I’m moaning. He bites my neck hard enough to draw blood while I gasp in pleasure. Suddenly, he grabs me by the shoulders and slings me to the ground, my head connecting with the bedpost. I reach out for him, the room spinning and tilting for a moment, and find his hair. I’m pulling him on top of me by his hair, as he socks my jaw making my head jerk and neck crack. “Shit, fuck!” He cries out, taking hold of my shoulders again, but this time flipping us both over so he’s on the bottom and I’m on top of him again. His hard on is digging into the junction of my thigh, and I grab him through his boxers, making him gasp and whimper. He’s reaching up, fingers fumbling over my belt. He’s broken one of his fingers but doesn’t seem to care or notice as he starts ripping my pants off. I reach down, grabbing his jaw and pulling him up, our tongues meeting instantly outside our mouths as he punches my stomach hard and I go reeling backwards, pulling my belt from the loops. He starts to get on top of me again, but I snap the belt at him, leaving a bright red mark across his chest and forearm. He stumbles, sliding back from me and reaching out blindly behind him. Finding the chair leg from earlier, he swings it at me. It makes a deep thunk as it slams into the sides of my ribs. I go spinning, sprawling out onto the floor. He’s on my legs instantly pulling my pants off the rest of the way, and then starting to pry the belt from my hands. He slaps me across the face when I don’t give it to him. Then, he’s bounding my wrists with it, leaning over and shoving his tongue in my mouth. I wrap my leg around him, my own erection rubbing against his bare stomach making him moan and driving him wild. He slides lower, my throbbing shin pressed against his hard on and he’s rocking a little his chest rubbing against me and we’re both enjoying this. He dips his tongue into my navel, working his way down my happy trail and sometimes biting the flesh and leaving marks. I’m in so much pain I can barley move, but I’ve never felt more pleasure then right now. He pulls my boxers down, crossing his legs to get more pressure from my shin on his boner, before biting the insides of my thighs and moving his hands roughly up my bruised hips. “Oh, God!” I moan, licking my lips as he guides my cock into his mouth, squeezing my upper thighs and hipbones. His deep-throated moans are resonating on me, vibrating. He’s enjoying this just as much as I am. I shove my hips and his head forward, digging my fingers into his scalp and pulling on his hair. “Yes!” I cry out, and I feel him cum all over my leg. His high-pitched moans make me cum too, and I release my self down his throat, yelling and moaning the whole time. “Y-you fucking came.” I growl at him. I’m panting and still shaking from my orgasm. What the hell is wrong with me? He whimpers, contracting from his own orgasm, nodding. Our lips smash against one another. I cry out softly, already getting hard again off tasting myself in his mouth. “Yeah, you like sucking my cock don’t you?” I demand, pushing him down with some difficulty, since my hands are still tied. “You taste so good you sick fuck.” He tells me, before punching the side of my face. I’m sent sprawling again. My nose is gushing blood. My forehead is pressed on the hard wood floor, as I lay with my arms tied underneath my chest, holding my bruised ribs. I try to will enough strength to get back up, but I’m not sure if I can. He’s there again, rolling me onto my back. His blue eyes are struck with an awkward awareness as he wonders what he’s doing. Confusion. I know that feeling to well, but I don’t want him to stop yet. I need more. “Fuck me in the mouth.” I say with difficulty. My vision blurs, then sort of meanders back into focus. He doesn’t respond. He’s contemplating his morals and I don’t want that. I sit up, slapping his shoulder as hard as I can with my bound wrists, and then the side of his face. “Fuck me please.” I say this to him so calmly. I might have asked him to pass the remote. "Okay" he says sort of stupidly, fumbling with himself and alighning up with my mouth. I quickly allow him all the way in, as he screams out in pleasure. He grabs my head with one hand and steadies himself on the bed with the other as he shoves his cock into my mouth. My throat muscles relax to take him all the way in, letting him fuck my mouth hard, screaming and moaning, yanking my hair. His nails dig ruthlessly into my scalp and he gasps and spasms, “Mmm, I-…Oh, shit Justin, holy fucking shit…” I close my eyes, swallowing him down. My head is starting to spin again. He slides himself down my body, so that he's lying flush against me again. He kisses me roughly, licking himself from the inside of my mouth. His hands run across my bruised, aching face, mine run up and down his back, gently over the raised welts and bruises. We kiss each other warm and tender, like old lovers, and all the pain is nothing. We paid for the sin. Now all we want is the love. - - - - - - - - - well that was a ride. glad that's out of my system, now its off to update happier fics...