Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1649495.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Character:
      Connor_(Original_Character), Nate_(Original_Character)
  Additional Tags:
      Drugged_Sex, Drug_Use, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Trans_Male_Character,
      Underage_Sex, Unsafe_Sex, Panic_Attacks
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-18 Words: 2402
****** You Never Forget Your First ******
by TheComposer
Summary
     This is a very dark story, written to explore a very painful incident
     in my own past. The character named Nate is 17 years old and
     transgender, while Connor is a 23 year old cisgender man; Nathaniel
     was in the hospital for a chronic illness three days prior, and his
     boyfriend--staying with him and his parents while they are all on
     vacation together--came into his bedroom after Nate took the medicine
     he was given after the brief hospital stay, ostensibly to comfort
     him. It didn't end well. Please pay attention to the tags, and read
     at your own risk.
Notes
     This is an incident that has been haunting me for a very long time;
     writing about everything that happened in the third person has given
     me an opportunity to gain some distance from it. I am fully aware
     that this kind of story is not something everyone wants to read,
     considering that it describes the sexual assault of someone who is
     both technically a minor and also under the influence of a powerful
     sedative. It was very cathartic to write, but will likely be
     disturbing to read.
It tastes like Valium melting on his tongue, bitter and astringent, when he
sucks Connor off. Nate doesn’t know what to think of that, doesn’t know what to
think of anything at all; he’s only half aware that he’s even still awake, his
body achingly exhausted from sickness and strong—terribly strong—sedatives. He
lets his jaw go slack, his head bobbing up and down in Connor’s lap, one stiff,
clumsy hand curled around the contortionist’s cock and the other gripping his
thigh. He’s stretched out across the bed on his belly, the older man’s hands
stroking his back through the thin cotton of his nightshirt; he couldn’t kneel
for this, his legs too unsteady to hold him up.

The room is spinning pleasantly, every sensation humming through his nerves,
easing him farther down into the sweet, hollowed-out sensation that always
comes with these medicines. It feels so good, and he gives into it willingly,
moaning quietly around the cock in his mouth and listening to the little,
almost-pained sounds that the man currently stroking his back is choking on.
The contortionist is trembling, and the boy doesn’t know what to think.

His breathing is slow and shallow when Connor pulls him away, easing him
upright and kissing him before peeling his nightshirt off over his head. Nate
grimaces, uncomfortable, when the older man reaches for his underwear. He
doesn’t like being touched there, considering that Connor thinks what’s between
his thighs makes him a woman. He shakes his head, thinks about protesting, but
then he’s on his back and soft fingers are moving over his sex; he bites his
lip and says nothing.

He looks at the moonlight slanting in through the window, tinting everything
silvery blue and making his boyfriend’s dirty-blond hair glow like a crooked
halo as he presses Nate’s thighs farther apart and lowers his head. The boy
averts his gaze again, looking at through the gaps in the blinds, seeing the
moon and the green fields beyond the window. The sensations between his legs
are pleasant in a way, but they can’t compare to the heady, overwhelming
euphoria that his medicines cause; it’s not merely that they’re sedatives, but
the fact that they stop the wretched, constant pain that he deals with every
day. The absence of pain is better than any kind of pleasure.

He loses himself in twisting thoughts that make no sense, feeling himself
floating farther and farther from his body, only vaguely aware of warmth and
wetness between his thighs. It’s annoying, not strong enough to really entice
him, and he cringes—brought sharply back to the present—when one long, thin,
dry finger is shoved unceremoniously into the hole he wishes he didn’t have. He
bites his lip, reaching down to spread himself with both hands, trying to ease
the sudden pain, and Connor takes this as an invitation, licking around the
place where his finger has slid in, his digit twisting and crooking sharply,
thrusting in and out. It’s nauseating, and Nate only wants to make it bearable.


The boy touches himself with the index finger of his left hand, rubbing firm,
careless circles over the spot that feels the best, the one part of his sex
that doesn’t make his stomach churn. It mitigates the pain, somewhat. He bites
his lip harder and keeps his eyes on the window. Just stop, he thinks, but the
words never leave his lips; he feels like he doesn’t have a choice, like it’s
expected of him. He lies silently beneath the over-eager contortionist, the
pleasure he brings himself just enough to eclipse the pain of the unskilled
finger working inside of him.

“Is it okay?” Nate blinks, looking at Connor’s hazy figure—his eyes won’t
focus, and even if they would, he can’t see without his glasses—and wondering
what he’s asking. Is it okay that he’s stopped? The boy makes a low, indecisive
sound, and his boyfriend moves as if to lick him again, almost withdrawn finger
sliding deeper into him once again. That gets a response.

“Yeah. ‘S okay,” he confirms, hearing the breathy slur of his words and
grimacing again. His voice is always too high when he’s like this. Connor’s
hand withdraws, stroking his chest and belly and thighs anywhere he can reach;
it makes him sick, feeling damp fingers dragging across his skin.

“You sure?” Connor asks. His voice is shaking. Nate can’t understand why, and
he makes a little sound of discontent, squirming and wishing that he could
close his legs. It’s impossible with Connor between them. He’s still touching
himself, having almost forgotten to stop at this point. He doesn’t feel any
closer to orgasm.

“Yeah. ‘M sure. ‘S okay,” he mumbles, turning his head away. He really isn’t
prepared for what happens next.

“I love you so much,” the contortionist murmurs, like a prayer, touching the
boys face and chest with trembling hands. Nate looks up at him finally, baffled
and uncertain, and then feels his heart stutter to a painful halt as he feels
the other man’s cock come to rest at the same hole his finger had so recently
occupied. He wants to protest, even to beg, but he suddenly can’t find the
words, his mouth dry as bone. He grips the sheets with one hand, the other
falling still at the top of his sex.

He closes his eyes when Connor pushes into him. It hurts. It hurts. It’s so
much worse than he realized it would be, and he feels himself tear. The way the
room is spinning doesn’t seem nearly so pleasant now, and he thinks that he’s
going to be sick. He holds his breath and touches himself again, rougher this
time, trying to drown out the gut-wrenching pain and the sensation of sharp,
clumsy stabs up into his guts. The older man is whimpering, his pale eyes
filled with unmitigated adoration, and Nate wants to scream.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t make a sound, his hand working mechanically
between his legs, his eyes everywhere but on the man currently inside of him.
Connor’s hips snap forward in rapid, painful movements that leave him
breathless, and once he has to reach down to guide the older man back into the
right hole when he feels his boyfriend’s cock nudging against his other
entrance, farther back. He feels disgusting, doing that, but it’s better than
letting Connor fumble around on his own.

He knows when the contortionist finishes; he makes a sound like a sob and goes
abruptly still, little tremors wracking his body. But his lover is young, and
he was a virgin too, before this; he doesn’t go soft quickly, and he
tries—slowly and roughly—to keep thrusting into Nate. The boy feels his gorge
rise, and has to swallow rapidly several times as he realizes Connor wants him
to get off, too. He touches himself more vigorously, and he comes a few seconds
later. It’s a painful spasm more than anything else, muscles clenching tightly
around the intruding member inside of him, and he immediately pulls his hands
away from himself to push lightly at Connor’s shoulders. The medicine is still
in his system, but he can already feel a panic attack threatening, his heart
and lungs caught in a painful vise and his breath coming in unsteady gasps.

“…need t’go t’the bathroom,” he mutters, finally, and Connor rolls off him
readily enough. Nate turns over and swings his legs over the edge of the bed,
lurching awkwardly to his feet. He staggers, catches himself on the doorframe,
then scrabbles at the lock until he gets it open; from there, it’s only a few
short, painful steps to the bathroom. The world whirls and tilts around him,
his head feeling far too light and his stomach fluttering in a way that makes
him feel like he can’t breathe.
 
Once inside, his knees buckle and his already blurry vision darkens at the
edges; he drops in slow motion to his knees in front of the toilet, crumpling
like a marionette finally being set down by a puppeteer, left to twist and
dangle and collapse without support. Panic makes him gasp and gag, his hands
going white-knuckled on the plastic seat as he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels
like he’s dying, as if his lungs won’t expand to let air in, and it leaves him
dizzy and more sick than before. He retches, bending forward involuntarily and
nearly cracking his head on the edge of the toilet bowl; his stomach is mostly
empty, thankfully, and all that comes up is spit and a little bile.

He staggers upright after a second, all but falling against the sink and
turning the water on, rinsing his mouth and dashing icy water into his face. It
does nothing but leave him shivering, and he clings to the porcelain for
support as he shoves cold, wet fingers between his thighs, digging into
himself, wishing he could rip out all the parts that Connor touched. His
fingers come away smeared with blood, and he aches so badly that he doesn’t
know how he’ll walk tomorrow when his medicine isn’t in his system, keeping the
worst of the pain at bay. He can’t stop clawing at himself for a long moment,
though, knowing that Connor came inside of him, that there’s a chance he’ll end
up carrying a child he doesn’t want and could never find the words to explain.

He wants to bathe properly, to scrub himself with scalding water until he feels
clean again, but his parents are in the next room. He can’t tell them, of
course, can’t let them find out. It’s disgusting, it’s dirty, and he has to
hide it. He washes between his legs with a wash cloth soaked in freezing water,
and the cold does a little to deaden the pain. He leaves it draped over the
edge of the sink when he leaves the bathroom; he wishes he could simply hide
there all night, but he knows that he can’t. He staggers like a drunk down the
hall, limping already because of the awful, violent ache between his legs.
Connor doesn’t notice any of this when Nate enters the room, lifting his head
to smile at the boy.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, holding one arm up welcomingly. Nate wants to leave,
to go be sick again, but he settles for pulling his nighshirt and underwear
back on with trembling hands and creeping into bed to lie with his head on
Connor’s chest. His guts twist themselves into knots, and the awful, almost
painful flutter in his chest that signifies a panic attack intensifies. “I love
you so much,” the older man adds, kissing the top of his head, his fingers
carding through the shivering boy’s hair.

“…love you, too.” Nate’s words—wooden and mechanical—fall into the air between
them, hanging there in silence, sounding as hollow and meaningless as the boy
feels. Connor must not be able to hear this, because he doesn’t respond; all he
does is kiss the top of Nate’s head again, twisting long, sweat-damp tendrils
of the teenager’s hair around his fingers. The gentle, tickling sensation makes
his stomach lurch, and the boy swears by every god he’s ever heard of that
he’ll cut his hair when all this is over. It’s the one part of him that
Connor’s touched that he actually can remove. He holds his breath, trying to
lie still and calm down, but his boyfriend is still playing with his hair,
stroking his back with his free hand, and he knows that he’s going to begin
sobbing soon if nothing changes.

“You should…you should go. My parents…” It’s all he can get out, but it’s
enough. Connor lets him go with a murmur of agreement, standing up. He looks so
small in the moonlight, his body thin and gangly in the silver-blue light. Nate
thinks of spiders, and his stomach twists sharply until he looks away. Connor
pauses just long enough to bend over him, kissing him wet and open-mouthed; the
boy allows it without protest, but he doesn’t respond. It drags on for too
long, and Connor never was a good kisser. His chin is slick with the other
man’s spit and rubbed raw from his stubble by the time the contortionist pulls
away.

“I love you, beautiful,” the older man assures him, smiling beatifically down
at him before leaving the room. Nate says nothing, simply huddling in on
himself and sliding a pillow between his knees to keep his thighs from pressing
too hard together, trying not to irritate the swollen, bloody, aching flesh
between his legs. He lays awake, trembling, until the dregs of the medicine
still swirling through his system and exhaustion finally get the better of him.
He smiles calmly the next morning, makes bread-and-butter pudding for everyone
to eat at breakfast, and really doesn’t say a word. He presses the soft inside
of his wrist against the metal rack of an oven heated to four hundred degrees
and doesn’t make a sound except for a little, unsteady gasp. He peels the
suddenly dead skin of the new blister off, leaving a raw, perfect circle of raw
flesh exposed, then shows his arm to Connor.

Look. You hurt me.

“I hurt myself,” he murmurs, and Connor fusses and coos over him, cleaning the
wound and dressing it properly, the injury hidden beneath layers of white
bandages—too much for such a little thing, Nate thinks, but he says nothing—and
he pays it no further mind. It doesn’t hurt, amazingly. It’s nothing compared
to the agony between his legs, and the constant, gnawing panic that’s chewing
away at his heart and digging sharp little claws into his lungs. He says
nothing about that injury, though, and explains that his apparent melancholy is
only because his arm hurts.

It really is a good excuse. He returns to his ordinary behavior as the burn
heals and they all return home, suffering through touches and kisses and
affection from someone who now makes his stomach churn; it’s almost a year
before he finally ends the relationship. Connor is so wounded, can’t understand
why this is happening, and Nate watches through tear-filled eyes as his
boyfriend’s world crumbles around the two of them.

It’s only to himself that he admits they’re tears of relief.
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