Memoirs: Part Two

I saw a picture of her once. I found it in his wallet. Dark hair, dark eyes, petite, slender. Beautiful. They were a perfect match. I wondered if he kisses her goodbye before he leaves for work like those happy, married couples I see on TV. Or if he makes love to her like he does with me, often with such wild abandon that it would bring us to a violent climax. I felt sick just thinking about it and more so looking at her picture. I hated her.

I wondered if she knew about me. About us. Me and Brad.

Brad. It had taken me a long time just to get used to calling him by his first name. Before, it was always Crawford. Only Schuldich called him Brad. That was when we were still Schwarz. Now, we are nothing. I am nothing.

He would come to the apartment, once or twice a week. It was a five-minute drive from the Diet Building. He had paid a hefty amount for the apartment. Because it was convenient. Like me.

There was a click on the door.

He’s here.

He has keys to the house again. I looked at the clock. It was 8:47. I rose from my seat and walked out into the hall. He stood in the doorway in a cream-colored suit, holding a dripping umbrella. I glanced out the window. It was raining hard outside. How fitting.

I took his umbrella and helped him out of his coat.

"I made dinner. I’ll heat it for you," I said as I followed him to the bedroom.

"No need for that. I won’t be staying long."

Just as I had expected, he’s not staying. He never stays. But why was I so upset? Was it because all my efforts in making dinner had gone to waste? Or was it because I was tired of being treated the way he treated me? I felt it in my blood, my veins--the annoyance, the vexation--slowly rising.

Maybe it’s because it clung to him. Her scent. I could smell it on his clothes, his hair, his skin…it was everywhere--a faint whiff in the air, some subtle reminder I could not shake. I hated it. I hated her. And I hated him. He never stays. He always goes home to her, careful to leave the musky scent of our lovemaking behind.

If he’s so afraid of her finding out, why does he even bother coming in the first place?

I wasn’t supposed to say it out loud but the words were out of my lips before I knew it. He had been busy unbuttoning his shirt but he turned to me, a nondescript expression on his face. Then he walked over and cupped a hand against my cheek. "Why do I come? Because I can. And because I know you want me to. You are nothing without me, Nagi. Remember that."

Arrogant bastard.

"Don’t be too sure," I said, giving him a chilly look.

His hand moved from my cheek to the back of my head, drawing me closer, his mouth against my ear. "You know, I can always find someone else. Someone more…willing." I tensed, feeling his warm breath on my neck. I fought the urge to tremble, hating the way he was stirring responses from deep inside of me, in my chest, in my groin. He ran his fingers slowly through my hair. "But don’t worry. I won’t. I’ve invested too much in you. It would be a shame to throw it all away. I made you what you are, after all."

He doesn’t even mean half the words he says, saying it only to spite. But how they affect me. I struggled against him, pushing him away.

It’s been almost a year since he got married and nearly four months since he came back to me. Came back. What a lie. He’s not mine anymore, the ring in his finger was proof of that, though I will always be his.

"You think you own me? Why don’t you just brand me then?" I said, my voice rising.

A small smile quirked his lips. "Maybe I should do that."

Bastard. He’s making fun of me. My eyes fell to the letter opener on the desk behind him. "Then do it!" I said, grabbing it and thrusting it at him. His eyes flicked over its sharp point, then to my outstretched arm.

"A tattoo would be better. Less messy and more permanent," he said, his voice somewhat amused.

He thought I was joking.

"If you won’t do it, then I will!" I declared.

He turned his back on me and resumed undressing. "I have no time for this, Nagi," was all he said.

My hands were shaking as I stepped in front of him.

"If you won’t do it, then I will," I repeated.

He looked up, studying my face for a moment. I looked straight back, challenging him with my eyes. I didn’t know what I meant to accomplish, but I was too upset and too stubborn to back down.

I felt no pain as the sharp metal sliced through my skin, carving in the first letter.

"Kuso!" he hissed, caught by surprise. He grabbed my hand but I shook it free, taking a step back, blood dripping on the floor.

"Stop that, Nagi," he said, black fury rising in his eyes. His voice was flat and cold.

"What’s the matter? Isn’t this what you want?" I dug the knife into my arm threateningly, ready to start on the second letter. It was funny, seeing him in that position. I could see the emotions flitter across his face in rapid successions. Shock, anger, worry, frustration.

I was in control of the situation and he was very much aware of it. I waited for him to ask me, "What do you want?" Yes, that was what I wanted to hear.

Say it, Brad. Say it.

And then I’ll answer, "Leave her. Come back to me."

But I made a grave error. He hated being manipulated. I shouldn’t have done it that way.

"Go ahead," he said, his expression suddenly placid.

My grip on the knife loosened as I felt the tables being turned.

He saw my hesitation and smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"What’s the matter, Nagi? Does it hurt now?"

I looked at my bleeding arm.

Damn him. I’ll show him, I thought.

With great effort, I forced the knife in my flesh, feeling it cut deep. The adrenaline had worn off and burning white pain shot through my arm.

"And the next one," he ordered.

I balked at the third letter and I heard him snort.

Damnyoudamnyou…

I clenched my jaw as I carved in the third letter.

Then the last.

Then I looked up at him defiantly. His eyes narrowed. He covered the distance between us in a heartbeat.

He caught me in a vise-like grip and grabbed the knife, flinging it across the room,

"Of all the foolish, stupid things—" He looked at my arm, turning it to the light. I winced as his grip tightened around it, fingers digging at my skin.

He turned me around and pushed me down to the bed, pinning my blood-covered arm up over my head. He got into bed, straddling me.

"No," I choked out, trying to break free. But he held me down, applying pressure into my arm so that I cried out in pain.

I never saw that look in his eyes before and it frightened me so that I didn’t even struggle as he tore my clothes off and only letting out a small whimper as he entered me in one forceful thrust. Pain more intense than the one I felt a few minutes ago engulfed me in endless waves as he pounded into me.

Tears leaked out of my eyes, unable to hold them back. But they weren’t because of the pain.

He had never, not even once, had taken me like this. Never in anger and never with such brutal force. He can be rough in our lovemaking but not like this. My fingers clenched at the blood-soaked sheets as his thrusts grew harder, his cock now slick with my blood.

But he didn’t hit me. He never did after that one incident when he told me he was getting married. I have a small scar at the side of my lower lip from that one time. I would see him flinch every time he sees it and once, as we laid together in bed, our bodies still slick with sweat and come, he told me, as he traced a finger across my lips, that he’d never do it again. And that he’d kill anyone who would. He also told me that I was his precious Nagi and that I belonged to no one but him.

He let out a grunt as he came, pushing into me one last time as he emptied himself inside of me. Then he got off of me, sitting himself at the edge of the bed, his back to me, breathing hard.

I laid there, my face tear-soaked and bleeding.

Without turning, he said, "Go clean yourself up. You’re messing up the sheets."

"Yes."

I bit back a sob as I got off the bed. I clasped my arm to my chest and headed for the bathroom on rubbery legs. As I left the room, I saw him bury his face in his hands.

Once inside, I sat down at the edge of the tub, my body racked with silent sobs. I don’t know for how long I sat there, crying and bleeding. It was pathetic. You could just imagine my horror when he stepped inside and saw me like that. I had forgotten to lock the door.

He stared at me for a moment, void of any emotions. Then he turned to the medicine cabinet and got out the ointment, some cotton, and bandages. He then knelt down beside me and wordlessly began to bind my arm.

He would never say it, but his actions said enough. I felt foolish and deeply ashamed. No, it wasn’t his fault. It was all mine. I deserved it. I longed to tell him that but I didn’t speak lest he thinks I was expecting an apology.

When he had finished, he got a damp towel, wiping me clean of blood, tears and semen. Then he wrapped me up in a robe and returned to the bedroom. I can hear him move about. I followed him out a few minutes later, walking slowly—my backside was still sore. But I saw that he had changed the sheets and cleaned the blood from the floor. All this, he had done without a word.

I sat on the bed, my hands clasped on my lap, watching him as he dressed. Then, as he took his coat, ready to leave, I stood up and laid a hand on his arm.

"Wait."

He turned to me.

I looked down on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. "I…I’m sorry," I said softly, my fingers clutching at his sleeve, an imploring gesture.

He looked at me then took my hand, lifting up my bandaged arm. "Don’t do this again. Ever." His voice was hard but his touch gentle.

"I won’t," I said, feeling a flash of relief. Yes, I too am forgiven. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder. "Stay. Please."

He let go of my hand and placed a finger under my chin, tipping my head up. He brushed a soft kiss against my lips. Yes, he was truly sorry for doing that to me.

"I can’t."

I knew he’d say that but I was disappointed nonetheless. I let go of his sleeve and he walks out of the room.

As I stood there, listening to the front door close behind him, I realized that I was happy. Because today, Brad came back to me.

******************************

4:16 am.

I couldn’t sleep and I’ve long given up trying. For some reason, my mind kept flashing back to that time when we took that trip to Kanazawa. That was three years ago. He was to attend a closed meeting, a private affair--all hush-hush. It had been a great surprise when he asked me to go. He had never taken me out with him in all those six months we’ve been together. But that was natural, of course. He was a public figure and relatively new. He had a name to protect.

It was a long trip and only the two of us in the car. He was quiet and I made no attempt at a conversation which turned it into a really long, really dull ride. The view held no interest for me. The countryside passed in a blur. For no particular reason, I shifted in my seat, moving closer to him. One hand snaked around the back of his head, fingers twining in his hair.

He ignored me.

A second hand moved to settle on his lap, stroking his thigh.

That elicited a reaction.

"This is no time for games, Nagi," he said with a touch of reproach. "We’re on the road. People might see."

A few votes down the drain. How tragic.

"Shh…it’s alright," I told him softly, not at all put off by the tone of his voice. "No one will see."

I was persistent, wanting to amuse myself--wanting to tease him, to annoy him. I pressed small kisses up the side of his neck, my hands moving in small caresses. I saw his hands tighten on the wheel and could feel the tension coiling inside him, like a wound-up string.

How many times had I done that before? It was not a game but more of a test. I would keep pushing and pushing, waiting for that outburst, that sudden wave of anger that would sweep over like wildfire, ending all pretenses.

But he never made any promises, never lied. He never offered love or anything that would come close to it. When he first came to me, when I had asked him why, he merely said he saw it all in a vision—as if that was enough to explain everything.

I never cared much for his visions. They were intangible and obscure. Not like the powers the rest of us had. Nevertheless, he was none the weaker for it. He was Crawford, after all. Leader of Schwarz. Enigmatic. Indomitable. Unbreakable.

I had found it amusing, for him to come to me in such a fashion.

Power.

Control.

It was all about that in the beginning. I had it in my hands and I saw it in his eyes. And that was why I said yes. It would be good, I had thought, to have him wrapped around my finger for a change.

He had me move into an apartment with him, had me well-provided for and had me settled in with a regular routine that through the months began to take in the semblance of domesticity. He even gave me a cat as a gift--to keep me company when he’s not around, that was what he had said. I found it odd at first. I don’t even like cats and neither did he. But as the significance of the act seeped in, I actually found myself rather pleased about it.

It had all been good and by the time I realized what was happening, I was fully enmeshed in the whole situation. And Brad knew it too. He had been so subtle, having it creep up from behind me, catching me unaware. I hadn’t really expected him to turn things around in record time.

He became less attentive, more detached the moment he regained control and I grew resentful of the fact that I’ve grown attached and he, not at all. The resentment grew into spite and that’s when we started having troubles. Often he would ignore me, especially those times when I’d deliberately do things which displeased him. He never laid a hand on me which surprised me because he had been so heavy-handed with Farfello and Schuldich back when we were still in Schwarz.

Many times I’d thought of leaving him, but there are times when, on a whim, he would do things to, let’s say, make up for his shortcomings. And at those times, one tends to forgive, to forget. One gets used to it in the long run. And besides, I had nowhere else to go.

I realized that I was staring at him. My hands had stopped their roving and his attention was back on the road.

I stared at his profile, so stoic and unyielding, and felt all the walls between us.

I suddenly felt tired. So tired.

I found myself moving closer still, slipping an arm around his waist in a loose hug.

He had tensed up as I laid my head against his shoulder and I said, "I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet." I felt him relax and give a small sigh. He took one hand off the wheel and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. We had come upon a silent truce.

As I sat there, my head against his chest and listening to the steady beating of his heart, it came--a surge, a flood, an overflow. And as it trickled down into a vast pool of realization, it overwhelmed me so, like water closing over my head.

"Nagi…?" he said as my hands began undoing his belt. I didn’t answer but kept at it, unbuttoning his trousers and unzipping him. He could have stopped me if he wanted.

He didn’t.

He was rock hard even before I began. He raised his arms from the steering wheel, allowing me to bend down, my hot mouth sliding over his stiff shaft.

He was surprised, as I recalled. Very much so. I had never done anything of this sort before and the significance was not lost on him.

I remember the smell of the leather seats as I fucked him with my mouth. He had spread his legs, a show of acquiescence. And when he came, he came in a gush, his seed exploding inside my mouth and down the back of my throat.

I swallowed every last drop, wanting it all: the taste, the smell, the feel of it. When it was all over, I cleaned him up as best as I could, carefully putting his clothes back into order.

As I settled back on my seat, he asked me what that was for. He had a small, private smile on his lips. I shrugged, telling him that it was nothing, that I just felt like doing it but I knew he saw it for what it really was--an act of declaration.

How laughable it all was. I never believed in karma. But then, whoever said you had to believe in something for it to happen to you?

After that, we drove in silence, him deep in thought, and I humming softly with the taste of him still in my mouth and his smell on my fingers.

I remember us stopping by a small traveler’s inn before we proceeded to the country-house where the meeting was to be held. He had me fix myself up and he put on a fresh suit that he had brought with him. It was only then that I realized the importance of the meeting. I grew extremely self-conscious.

He must have sensed the change for he walked up to me, placed a hand against my cheek and smiled that private smile of his. "Don’t worry, Nagi, you’ll do just fine."

I nodded and pressed a kiss into his palm.

The house was old, big and Western-styled. It was far too big and gloomy for my taste and I felt uneasy.

A butler led us inside into a big sitting room where everyone was gathered, lots of old men dressed in their severe, dark suits. They all stopped talking when we entered and I felt all eyes on me.

Looking back at it now, I could hear voices mocking me in my head. Welcome to the Married Gay Politicians Circle. Please sit back and relax.

I had been so naive. Painfully so, to the point of stupidity.

The shock felt surreal, as if a part of me had detached itself from my body to hover and float about, watching from a distance as everything began to unfold, to fall into place.

At one point, I remembered looking across the room to where he stood, sipping at a drink and pretending to be interested in the conversation that floated around him. His smile came back to me then. That small, private smile. I felt an acute pain in my chest. How could I think that it meant that he understood I already fell for him? To him, it only meant that I had crossed that line, from the reluctant toy he has, to someone more willing to do as he commanded.

But yes, he was also correct.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned back to the old man beside me who seemed to have a bit of a trouble keeping his hands to himself. The body means nothing, I told myself. I looked again, across the room and this time, our eyes met.

/Now be a good boy, Nagi./

/I hate you…

….I love you./

/I know you do./

He smiled.

The shrill ring of the alarm clock broke the stillness of the morning.

I blinked, quite disoriented until realized I was lying facedown on my bed, my hand clenched on my pillow. I squinted at the clock. It read 6:30 am. I had managed to fall asleep after all.

I reached out to turn off the alarm and rolled over, burying my face back into my pillow. Then I stopped realizing I was pressing my face against wet fabric. I raised myself up on my elbows and looked at my pillow. Then I raised a hand to my face, feeling my damp cheeks.

Then the phone rang.

I let go of the pillow and sat up, picking up the receiver.

Disappointment welled in my chest when I heard a female voice on the line. It was his secretary. She called to remind me that we were to go out to dinner tonight with a few special guests.

"Alright," I said feeling that familiar ache in my chest. "Tell him I’ll be ready by eight." Then I hung up.

I stood and walked over to the mirror by the door. I ran my hand through sleep-rumpled hair and studied my face, tracing the small scar on my lower lip. It was barely noticeable except under daylight. It’ll have to do.

I frowned as I looked at my arm. The bandages were still there. Some of them don’t like it when their boys are less than perfect.

I could see it all in my mind.

/What happened to your arm, my sweet?/

/An accident, sir. It was all my fault./

/Poor darling. Come here and let me make it all better…/

I fought the wave of nausea that swept over me.

Stupid fuck. Leave me alone and it’ll make everything better.

I rubbed my eyes and returned to bed.

A few more hours of sleep won’t hurt. Besides, that night, I had work to do.

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