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Blaire is held down below Trager. His usually gelled hair has now been pulled out of its cast, lying clad sweaty to Blaire’s forehead. His expensive suit jacket has long been discarded, much to Blaire’s dismay, though there is little use for such things in the asylum. That is a reason Blaire rarely stepped foot in this shit hole. That, and the utmost depravity of these people. Shit under his shoe.
And, the moment Trager assimilated with the shit, he was nothing to Blaire. Of course, that isn’t a hard concept to understand. Blaire knew that if Trager were in his shoes, which was hardly a possibility, but that’s besides the point, he would do the same thing.
Trager, the pig, would stay sat on that capital throne, with his red hands caught in the places they shouldn’t be. Ah, that would always be a mystery to Blaire. Trager could have had anybody he wanted. Yes, he was attractive, very much so. And he was a charming guy. The fact he succumbed to such cheap tricks to get such a cheap lay, that was beyond Blaire. And, even despite the relentless torture he had experienced at the hands of the Murkoff and the morphogenic engine. Those piggish tendencies never escaped Trager. No, and apparently they had only intensified.
Blaire is crushed against a hospital bed. His face ground against the bed. The lack of funding appointed is apparent, the bed is merely a cardboard slab. Though it reeks with the smell of vomit, blood, and faeces - as does the rest of the asylum. Trager’s fingers, writhing like worms, find the belt wrapped around Blaire’s hips. Trager hums, low and gravelly. His voice had grown hoarse. Harsher than Blaire remembers.
“You’ve lost weight, friend. Did you notice?”
Trager hums. Blaire doesn’t need to look to notice the spiteful grin rising on Trager’s disfigured face, it’s a miracle that the man can still smile, though such traits must persist, it seems.
“Rick, get off me,” Blaire croaks. Assertion unable to find its way in his tone.
Trager persists, as if he was capable of anything else.
The hands tug his belt free, the button of his slacks coming loose in the aggression. A long fingernail clamps down on the zipper. Blaire tenses.
“Rick, you bastard, what is this?” The zipper is dragged down.
“You’re going to rape me. Are you serious? Fuck this.” Trager’s free hand finds the back of Blaire’s neck. The nape coated in sweat, tinging the collar of his shirt. Trager’s hand clamps down. As if he were restraining a kitten. The act forces Blaire’s back to tense, underfed muscles straining. Blaire was almost sure a vein in his forehead had burst from the strain.
“You never visited me, buddy. I thought we were friends, really, I did,” Trager muses. He plays with Blaire’s hair, like he is a doll. Trager is almost childlike in his demeanour.
“You drugged Pauline Glick,” Blaire starts. "What the hell is wrong with you--" A finger jams into Blaire's mouth. It tastes despicable, the nail cuts the roof of his mouth jaggedly open, tasting of iron illness. Even if Blaire walks out of this alive, he will surely die of tetanus or some other disease this mangy hand is carrying.
“Christ! Who cares?! I'm not a bad guy, you said it yourself. I needed a win.”
Trager kicks Blaire’s slacks completely off. Blaire lurches forward, he gags against Trager’s thin finger. His hips are raised, ass pressed against Trager’s groin, slacks around his ankles. His shirt has bunched around his upper back. A position as such is only fitting for a woman. Trager, as it is in his nature, only continues to speak. “Jer, did you know that from this angle, you could make a convincing woman?" The hand on Blaire’s hip reaches between his legs and crushes Blaire’s groin through his briefs. Blaire gags against the fingers again, tears prick at his eyes, though they only prick. He refuses to lose his composure.
Each action lingers; they feel like nails on a chalkboard, or the creaking of a door. Each action digs into the deepest pits of Blaire's pride, of everything Blaire's worked for. 12 hours in this asylum. 12 hours forced victim to the cornerstones of slaughter, bared witness to filth and depravity. Perhaps that impact was numbed by Blaire's experience in the field, perhaps it was numbed by the knowledge he had a hand in this suffering. However, no amount of apathy could dull the festering of unidentifiable emotion in his heart when he sees Rick.
There was no secret left between the two men. Some nights, if particularly drunk, if particularly high, they would share a hooker. Rick, unlike him, would be distracted from the writhing nudity beneath him. Through the woman's body, Blaire could feel how badly Rick wanted to throw the whore aside and have at Blaire instead. Though Blaire wouldn't acknowledge it. And Rick wouldn't intend on acting upon his lust, however unlike him.
Their friendship, half a corporate front, half something unspeakable, would be something Blaire could never drill out of himself. He wonders, in that moment, if he were to be placed in that engine, like he had Rick, would he too be unable to control himself?
The grip on his crotch had only tightened in that moment of stillness. Trager, whose eyes had become beady like an owl, peered down at Blaire's face. The man was snivelling, cheeks red, snotty, drool pooling down his chin and around Trager's fingers. It was a sight so familiar to Trager as he had seen it before in his mind. Something satisfied fills Trager's expression.
"Should I cut you open, Jer? See what else you're hiding under that suit of thick skin and fuck it raw? Ha! I want more of you because this..." The hand tightens again, Blaire finally sobs. His prick clamped so tight, it felt as if it may break off, much to Trager's delight.
"This is nothing impressive." Trager drags his fingers from Blaire's mouth.
"You're sick! You're sick, you bastard! You should've been thrown in here sooner," Blaire yells. Spit flies from his mouth, it hits the wall, pools on the mattress. Trager's already grin split face widens. The hand on Blaire's crotch slides beneath the fabric, tugging sloppily. Blaire won't acknowledge the wetness already gathering from the tip of his prick, nor the experienced glide of Trager's calloused hand, it feels incredible.
"Jer," Rick whispers. Though Blaire is unable to make the words out through the static in his mind and the rabid panting escaping him. Blaire's briefs are torn back, Rick slaps the bare skin of his ass, as if he were a misbehaving child. "Jer. Are you having fun, buddy?" It's said with this harrowing amusement, disdain and mockery curling around Trager's tongue. That fondness they once held for one another, that bond, it seems Trager has lost it too.
He slaps Blaire's behind again.
"Please stop." Blaire snivels. He's panting like a wounded dog. He starts to really cry.
"Ha! Ah, this is too good. I've always wanted you like this, buddy. You're too cute." Trager revels. One of his wet fingers slowly sinks into Blaire's ass. Blaire screams, his scream is open mouthed against the vomit rank bed. It doesn't hurt, not physically, it's as if Trager is cutting Blaire's pride open and fucking the wound.
Blaire trembles, his body tense enough to snap, veins bulging from his skin. The finger goes out, in comes another. It's filthy. Wet only with saliva and whatever pre Trager could wring from Blaire's actively softening prick.
"Just do it already," Blaire sneers. His body has stiffened impossibly. Rigid as a board. Rick grabs his jaw and wrenches Blaire's head back.
"'It'? Is that the best you can do? Convince me. Entertain me." Rick muses, tongue raking over his scarred, fleshy lip. Blaire is unable to meet his eye. Is this how those women felt? Of course, they were at least fucking something worth looking at. Trager, at this moment, looks like a walking STD. A blister excited to pop. It's horrid. Convince him? Blaire's tongue becomes a weight in his mouth.
"Let me go and we can forget this happened. Please."
"Be realistic, Jer. You were always so good at that."
"Fucking hell... Fine, fine. Fuck me, Rick. Please, fuck me. Please," Blaire says this so monotone, so composed. All wreckage that had previously marred his demeanour has been forcibly stripped away. Trager, though monumentally unsatisfied, slides his blood-stained apron to the side. His dick prods against Blaire's hole. Trager, despite not being well endowed, won't fit, that much is obvious to both of the men. He shoves in anyway. Blaire's composure snaps and is replaced with huffing and groaning. The feeling of being sodomised by Rick reminiscent to that of a hot poker jamming into his bowels. It's despicable. Blaire howls with regret. In the moment of agony, he begins to wet himself. Blaire doesn't notice as he is pre-occupied, though a glint lights up in Trager's eye.
The bony hand wraps around Blaire's prick, letting the yellow spill onto the mattress and stain it further. Each violent thrust coaxes a spurt of urine. Blaire wallows, eyes lit up with static.
"Rick, take it out. Take it out!" He stammers frantically. He stumbles over his own words, gagging and hacking join his cacophony.
Trager wraps an arm around Blaire's stomach and pulls him back from the wall. Now, Blaire is sitting on Trager's hips. Bouncing. Trager is uncharacteristically silent. Rick nails Blaire's prostate, inducing the tensing of thighs and the hardening of Blaire's prick. He begins to stroke Blaire again.
"Ah, ah-oh. No, wait, fuck. Ah!" Blaire sobs, back curling taut as a bow string would. Never has he felt more unlike himself.
Blaire cums, spilling over Trager's palm. Trager reaches up, smearing the mess over Blaire's face, it catches in his stubble and over his lip, more gagging ensues.
"You're such a prude, Jer." Rick whispers, showing off his rotted teeth. He doesn't stop his thrusting, fingers bruising Blaire's hips as he pulls him down on his dick over and over again. Blaire can only sob, prick lying against his thigh.
Trager pulls Blaire down a final time, thighs flush with Blaire's ass. Cum spilling into him. Blaire vomits, keeling forward. It pools on the bed and down Blaire's thighs, dripping and leaking so viscously. Blaire's thighs now a mess of piss, bile, spit and cum. Trager drags a finger through the muck and forces it into Blaire's agape mouth.
"I'm not going to kill you, Jer, for old times sake. How about that?"
Trager coos, batting his lashes at the shivering body. Blaire doesn't respond, his eyes are squeezed impossibly tight, forcing himself to ignore the wet sensation between his legs, the putridness that has now impeded on his body. Blaire slowly reaches down and grabs his suit slacks. Rick pulls them up for him, patting his ass.
"Don't look so offended, Christ. Show us a smile for once, I miss it."
Rick grabs Blaire's jaw, fingers pushing his cheeks into a grin. It's hopeless. That apathetic amusement doesn't leave Trager's narrow glare, it only drills into Blaire's hammering mind. Blaire's gaze slowly trickles to behind Trager, past the mutilated 'patients' and into the open doors leading to a courtyard.
The exit was really so close.