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This whole party is a contact high made manifest. The disco ball that Elsie calls a dress catches every light and directs them into his eyes. He tries not to squint, tries to keep his vision open and aware in the face of the swirling chaos. It proves difficult when every thrum of the bass produces a pulsing rainbow in his head.
He doesn't know what was in the drink they gave him, the one that was just slightly too viscous. It was sweet, tangy, and bitter, in that order, as it washed over his tongue, and the shifting taste still clings like expired medicine to the back of his throat. He's sure it's the reason why he's stumbling, why he's seeing double, but it's also making him so warm, so light inside even when his body is heavy.
When he falls, or perhaps gets pushed by hands unseen, it's right into her chest, face-planting into the array of cold, reflective metal. He can see his own eye in the shards if he focuses, though the ability to do so is slipping away as Elsie wraps her arms around him. He melts like ice cream in the sun, soft and pliant in her grasp.
“There, there,” she coos. “Let Mommy take care of you.”
The throbbing pain in his cranial incision alerts Cam to the racing of his heart and rushing of his blood.
He hasn't fucked her. He didn't lie to Isaiah about that. He doesn't even want to; at least, he thought he didn't before hearing the disappointment in his voice when he said “no”. Now, he feels her hands graze the back of his neck, the skin on her fingertips rougher than her luxurious lifestyle would suggest, sending a jolt of electricity down his torso.
Cam’s cock twitches in his pants. His girlfriend is probably curled up on her bed right now, texting his mom, panicking over his radio silence. The thought of her vanishes as soon as it appears, brushed away by the knowing fingers on his skin.
His mouth is dry, so dry. His lips fumble for the peak of her breast, wherever it's hiding underneath her dress. That's what a mother does: feeds her son. Somewhere above him, she hums in appreciation.
“You want something in your mouth, huh?”
The edges of her vocal fry rub against his most sensitive parts like sand in his eyes. She raises a finger to his face and traces the contours of his lips, then lifts her head and calls to someone he doesn't see.
“He's ready.”
And then he's being half-dragged, half-carried across the room. It's a blur: there's a door, there's a light, and suddenly there's no more Elsie.
He collapses to his knees, and what he finds beneath them is not a dark floor sticky with sweat and spilled drinks. It's plastic that crinkles and stabs his eyes with its sharp white, covering not just the ground but the entire room. For a moment he wants to run, but remembers his legs might not support him if he stood.
He knows she is still there from how she jangles when she walks, then from the hand that pats him on the shoulder. There, there.
When he looks up, he takes in the sight of the seated figure in parts, eyes adjusting to the light. First the dress shoes, shined to perfection. Then the spread legs of the black pants, meeting in the middle at a bulge tucked behind the zipper. Hands hang lazily off the armrests of what appears to be a throne, shining and golden. The black tie, the collar, and above it the face of Isaiah White.
Isaiah has always been a proud man. His legs loll apart while Cam shrinks into himself to hide how he strains against the fabric of his slacks. He angles his face up even when he looks down at the younger man. When Cam looks above his head, he swears he sees the glint of a halo.
Without being told, he understands what he is here to do. What he now yearns to do, and maybe always has.
There are, after all, two primary reasons why people kneel in front of one another.
He crawls closer, puts a hand on each of his hero’s knees, withdraws when Isaiah winces at the pressure. That old injury must still wear on him. He drops his hands to his sides.
Isaiah hums. “Mmhmm. That's right. Won't be needing those anyway.”
He leans into the swelling of the other man’s erection, but Isaiah catches his head and pushes him back. Cam is confused, until the chill of metal prods at the corner of his lips. Oh.
He turns his head slightly, notices the weapon Isaiah has in hand. It’s the same one he was threatened with in the sauna. It looked much larger then, not perfectly sized as if it was made for him.
Before the compound, before the training, before the drugs, he might have been scared for his life. But now? Now, opening his mouth for the gun feels as natural as breathing.
The square shape is awkward and bangs against his teeth at first, but he opens wider to let it sit more comfortably in the cavern of his jaw. The smoothness of the stainless steel has the same cool burn as peppermint and is just as delicious. He tongues at the muzzle, and Isaiah sighs as if it really were the tip of his dick.
“Yes. Just like that.”
Cam takes it in deeper, moaning against the metal. Three voices fill the room now; Elsie stands in the corner of his sight with her dress hiked above her hips, leaning against the wall with her hand between her thighs. The musk mixes with the scent of cologne. Isaiah caresses his head and it feels like love, feels like God.
His jaw burns and his thighs burn as he grinds against air, and saliva drips from his mouth onto the floor but he can’t stop not when he’s so close not when he’s making him so proud–
Then the gunshot. The burst of nothing in his skull. The ground under his back, the breath forced from his lungs.
For a long moment, all he hears is a ringing that he confuses for the voices of angels.
He comes to slowly, eyes burning from the light once again. He feels for his head while gasping through fumes of gunpowder: somehow, it’s all still there.
Shaken from his psychedelic haze, the world makes too much sense. There’s no throne, no gun to be seen. Sights are sights and sounds are sounds again, and there is nothing to blunt the sights and sounds of Isaiah with his wife's fingers in his mouth, sucking at her juices. He looks down at the younger man as he does, expression unreadable.
Cam surveys the plastic drapery on the walls, and part of him still expects to see his own brains adorning it. But there’s no blood, just the semen that seeps into his boxer briefs. He wonders, just for a moment, if Isaiah will want that as well.
But he and Elsie leave him alone, sprawled out and wasted on the ground. A sacrifice, abandoned.