Bite Me, Suck Me Hard
Chapter 1

Note: This story contains graphic depictions of drug abuse, alcohol abuse, sexual content, and both homosexual and heterosexual interactions. Please read at your own discretion.

My life, or whatever is left of it, is fucking pointless. Lying motionlessly in my black silken bed tangled amongst the long, tanned limbs of a set of slumbering, scantily clad identical twin sisters, my own exhausted nakedness spread out comfortably between my slightly parted legs, my vision spinning senselessly from the cocaine I'd indulged in earlier that night, I couldn't help but wonder vaguely if my mother was home from grocery shopping yet. I hoped to whatever gods existed that if she was, she wouldn't think of coming to see me—the sight that would consequently greet her would surely shock her poor frail heart beyond repair.

I love my mother more than I could ever love anyone else on this planet. I didn't want her to see me like this, high on cocaine and barely aware of my surroundings, nestled between two big breasted females with my now limp masculinity resting after several bouts of a rather excruciating workout. I was staring at the ceiling, my mind wandering rapidly from one unrelated subject to another, the wide arrangement of the colors of my surroundings blurring and combining to create a multihued, spin art-like painting only that beautiful white residue could grant me, when one of the blondes sat up to nip playfully at the sensitive flesh of my neck. In quick response I shifted atop her inviting form, grabbing her chin forcefully and crushing her lips to mine, easily slipping all of the fingers of my left hand inside her tempting cave of womanhood. Unexpectedly awake, the other unnamed girl's arms wound around my waist and her balmy hands crept downward, swathing tightly around my quickly hardening cock and pumping it carefully, rousing it from a short slumber. Her lips, soft and tender, dove gently down the skin encasing my spine, causing little goosebumps to form all over my body. I moaned in response, feeling my tired, defenseless body give way to their charms. They were like two succubae, come to feed on my sex and leave me empty and soulless as I was before we met.

Barely processing what should have been innumerable sensations penetrating my flesh, I could only reiterate my last conscious thought: my life, this piece of shit I traipse through half aware, is fucking pointless. What is sex when I could feel nothing, when all I can really concentrate on is the hazy puddle of sweat dripping off our entwined bodies? What is cocaine, when the high it gives me is only just good enough to block out the pain that tears through my body every second my heart beats? What is alcohol but a social lubricant, a method to bring these insignificant sex toys to my bedroom?

Nothing meant anything anymore. Not like it was when I first started—when everything was new and fresh, and the sensations I got from shooting up or sucking in or huffing out were all so vivid and colorful. Now it was almost as painful to be high than it was to be sober, but it was habit—a habit that was impossible to kick. I just sucked in a little extra cocaine and pretended to be completely fine, like I wasn't ripping apart on the inside.

Giggling and unaware, our private threesome fucked three more times at least, though with the drugs and the alcohol in my system I reallycouldn't be sure. After it was finished and we were spent beyond consciousness, I fell asleep between the perspiring bodies of the twenty-five year old blonde bimbos that were currently occupying my bed. I woke hours before them, intent on leaving before they had a chance to insist on more—I couldn't handle their addiction any longer. I gathered together what clothing I could locate inside my unlit dresser drawers and crept into the bathroom and under the inviting spray of my shower.

Sure, sex was supposed to be fun. For everyone else I'd ever known, it was amazing, mind-blowing, wonderful, crazy, and yet for me it was so disappointing. There was a thought inside my mind when I came inside whatever empty headed sexual partner I'd selected for the hour, an unmistakable notion that struck me hard.

Sex was unnatural for me.

Shutting off the wonderful spray of hot water, I made my way through the heavy fog in the bathroom to wipe away the mist that covered my mirror—a thick sheet of glass that went from floor to ceiling and extended about a foot lengthwise. I studied myself with steadfast disappointment, wondering what women saw in me that made them want to take up a mattress in a heartbeat. To my own perception, I looked like a teenage boy with too much estrogen. Slender body, probably too thin for my height of five foot seven—barely 115 pounds, if I recall my last hospital visit, though my cheeks had fattened up a bit since that time. Some slight, dare I say, girlish hips. Stylishly cut raven hair cut in choppy layers that ranged from just past my chin to eye level, makeshift bangs hanging in front of a set of eternally pained icy blue eyes framed by a set of unnaturally long and full black eyelashes. Neither defenseless nor cruel, not lost nor found. Average. I looked average and pretty.

Dressing myself as quickly as possible, weakly attempting to avoid my own penetrating blue stare in that accursed mirror, I snuck out of my bedroom and crept downstairs, catching the suspicious frown of Sachiko, my elder sister, as I passed her on our grand, red carpeted mahogany staircase. I ignored her as I sailed through the kitchen and into our modest four car garage that occupied only three cars—my mother's silver Maybach Landaulet, my sister's white Porsche 918 Spyder, and my own beautiful black Bugatti Veyron Super Sport—a wondrous vehicle that my wonderful mother had imported from somewhere in Europe when I was fourteen as a way to keep my grades up. It hadn't been completely necessary at first—but then I hit fifteen and then sixteen and eventually seventeen, and by that time it had become an essential weapon against me—'lose the grades, lose the car'. Now, I was passing all of my classes. My mother wouldn't actually know—would never know—that my straight 'C' record was because I'd given a few of my prettier, intelligent, virgin female classmates a crash course in '60 hot mattress moves', and they'd spontaneously decided to complete some of my missing assignments.

My life was one big party.

A fantastic, hot, fuck-ridden, pointless party and I hated it. It would be nice to have something to look forward to besides the routine outings my body had become accustomed to. It would be nice to have someone who could deal with me, who could understand and help me though this meaningless pain.

Help me.

No.

Just deal.

I cruised through the busy streets of Mallepa toward my towering high school, sighing dejectedly to myself and wishing that I could just nap in this sleek black car for the duration of my school day. I felt trapped—I didn't want to bear another day at that noisy jailhouse, but I couldn't go home to my mother's disappointed stare either.

"Shit!" I cried, narrowly swerving around a group of elderly women emerging from a plastic surgery clinic with pamphlets in their hands. They yelled expletives in my direction that were completely unsuitable for their advanced age and threw fists with extended middle fingers in my direction as I sped past, shaking my head in disgust and trying to purge my mind of the thought of any one of them getting plastic surgery—for what, I wonder?

"Ugh," I moaned to myself, pausing at a red light and intentionally banging my head on my leather encased steering wheel. I thought of last night's twin conquests, probably still sleeping soundly on my bed of black silk. I hadn't even bothered to hear their names, and I doubt they understood mine. Would they remember me when they awoke? Would they still be there when I came home today?

Someone to greet me cheerily when I came home. What a fucking concept.

Cruelly, I recalled our numerous record-breaking fucking sessions, sneering as their identical faces bent in ecstasy and moaned in unison. I'd watched them coldly, donning my ever-present mask of elation and wondering why they were feeling such wonderful sensations while I felt nothing.

As long as I could remember (which, unfortunately, is not far at all), it has always been easy to arouse me but impossible for me to orgasm. I'd all but given up on getting any sort of pleasure from these empty headed sex toys who'd learned how to give a blow job before they learned to multiply any number larger than five. Their attraction was only skin deep; their knowledge only radiated below the belt. They had nasty personalities, bad breath, tempers, and an affinity for violence, as well as hundreds of attributes I'm sure I'd missed.

A long time ago, I told myself I would never be like them. I'd been raised to be a good boy. I'd been raised to know right from wrong; I had a fantastic mother, a sweet older sister, and a wonderful little best friend.

One day, when my sister had stayed late at school to take a test she had missed, I was walking home alone and was stopped on the sidewalk by a girl who was a little older than me. After a little crafty persuasion, she'd handed me a bag of tiny white pills, saying that they would help me meet someone. I hadn't wanted to take it, but I had been so lonely at the time—I was dying for a friend to talk to, and I might have done anything to get one. My best friend had just left the country, with no intentions to return, and I didn't have anyone else to talk to. My first love had left me, and my heart was breaking.

Even now, I fight with myself over whether those pills had been an acceptable solution.

I woke up the morning after my little experimentation to find myself sprawled next to a much older redheaded female, completely naked with my penis lightly quivering from an act I hadn't known. I couldn't remember anything from the night before but I could see the bruises and the scratches and the adult sized bite marks that littered the flesh of my feeble body. I could only assume what had happened and even now, three and a half years later, I couldn't bring myself to even think the words.

Blessedly so, the extra little white pills that I'd received from that strange girl helped me forget what the unnamed redhead had done to me. A few days after that first incident, a senior approached me and invited me to a party, where I tried my very first drink. I'd hated it then; I still hate it, now. But the older kids around me had been so impressed—I was the coolest freshman they knew; I did ecstasy. So I kept doing it. And after the alcohol came cocaine, and the sweetest fucking addiction there ever was. Then I had my first cigarette. I, like most, coughed and sputtered as I inhaled the cloud of dark, thick, smoldering smoke, but still I kept on puffing like a little train, determined to forget everything around me—the pain of my breaking heart, the fact that I needed all of these things to soothe the pain, or the way my mother looked at when I came home after a few days of no contact, completely smashed beyond reason.

I couldn't help wondering where the tracks would lead me.

When the terrible plague of addiction overcame me I was fourteen, and barely that. Now I am a healthy seventeen-year-old who has managed to sleep with half of the town's female population under 30, including about a third of the married women throughout the town and three fourths of my own high school's female population. I smoke about two packs of cigarettes a day. I drink between three and five cases of vodka a week, and sometimes more if I feel like it. I've done every drug I could get my hands on, which—considering I lived in one of the richest cities in the country, was a hell of a lot.

I didn't enjoy living my life like this—or what I could remember of it in the morning. No, I dealt with it, for lack of a better term. I hated being trapped like this, in a world where money meant everything and drugs and sex and alcohol were a daily occurrence for any child over 15 who cared about their social relationships with their peers. My life was constantly on the line and while I hated the way I lived it, I couldn't have cared less. My special relationship with absinthe took care of that.

No one I'd known up to this point has really tried to stop me from what I've been doing to myself, what I was sucked into. Sachiko, who was currently almost nineteen and a senior in high school (she'd contracted pneumonia two years ago and had to miss a year of school), was more involved with her popular series of paintings than trying to rationalize with me. My mother is devoted and kind, but she didn't know what to do with me sometimes. I didn't blame her for being unable to think of a single word to say to me when I came in from spending several nights getting higher than Mount Olympus at a party at someone's home, still piss drunk. I knew she cried about my predicament at night. I love both of them with all of my heart and even so, I could do nothing to stop myself from acting the way I did. I didn't want to stop just yet. I wasn't ready. I wasn't fixed.

I never would be.

Pushing my car door shut, I stared up at the sprawling metal and glass three story building for a moment and tried to pretend I was elsewhere with no luck. Shuffling my feet clumsily, I joined three other students who'd been wandering aimlessly around the parking lot as they finally walked into the ugly structure.

I hadn't walked more than three feet into the cold building when a barely comprehensible Southern twanged voice slurred "Yo!" in my direction. I raised my bloodshot eyes from the linoleum floor to gaze right into a set of sleek silver irises, twinkling merrily no more than six inches from my face.

"Hey," I greeted quietly, grinding my fists into my eyes and glancing distractedly at my Rolex. It was eight in the morning—classes started thirty minutes ago.

"Feel like cuttin' second period?" the bleary eyed teenager in front of me began. "Maurice say he's hookin' us up with a couple 'a babes from Stipendo." The boy, Vince Clowland—my only pseudo friend in this mess I called my existence—finished. He was one of the few tenth graders I knew that partied harder than me—hell, one of the only people I knew period that partied harder than I did—and you could tell by the way he tried to make eye contact.

"...Hm? Oh, yeah, sure." I spoke as I stumbled in and out of my thoughts, cringing at the way Vince massacred the English language. Once, I'd prided myself on my brains. I still do, not that I really put them to the test all that often anymore. I also have manners, always did, always will because of my mother's incessant breakfast time etiquette classes, and if I'm not spinning in circles, watching the sky come alive before my eyes while I'm floating high on something, I still use them. Sometimes.

I continued walking down the hall, unsure what I agreed to just then. Catching a glimpse of myself in a tall window, I began thinking once again about what I looked like to the students passing me by, looking just as exhausted and bored. Did I look lost or helpless? Maybe not. Depressed or suicidal? Doubt it. Not one of these teenagers passing by ever offered me a hand when I felt like I was drowning in my own mess.

If only they knew how fucked up I was. How lost, confused, and upset I was.

Maybe they'd help me.

No.

No, I guess not. I'm a mean son of a bitch to people. I hate them and they haven't even done anything—although, in my case, that was the very problem.

"Call me 'round nine, then," Vince began again. "He's already gonna be gone, but…" Whatever else he was going to say was immediately cut off when my eyes happened to lock onto a very tall brunette boy sauntering in my direction. My world stopped revolving for a moment as I studied this foreign creature, who was wearing attention grabbing fluorescent orange windbreaker pants and a slightly tattered sleeveless black leather shirt and the strangest pair of purple Converse I'd ever seen. But his clothes weren't the attribute that had me so smitten—it was his eyes, the brightest emerald colored spheres I'd ever seen, fitted perfectly into a Greek statuesque face obviously molded by angels. Entranced beyond reason, I stopped walking. I stopped listening. I stopped breathing. I could only stare.

He stopped walking as well, staring curiously at me too. His hand, shockingly well manicured, actually moved out toward me as if to touch me. I pulled away a little bit, my ensnared gaze resting on that slightly effeminate face for a moment longer. I didn't want to look away. Finally, I pulled out of my reverie, blinked, and weakly tried to focus on whatever Vince was saying. When I looked in that direction a few seconds later, I saw that the strange boy had moved away.

"Got it?" Vince asked out of nowhere, his endless rant apparently complete. I nodded, mumbled something barely incomprehensible and slowly tottered down the hallway toward what I thought was my first period class—or what was left of it, anyway.

Those eyes… oh god, those soul wrenching green mirrors that haunted me even minutes after I'd glimpsed them.

I wanted to curl up in a corner with a cigarette and a bottle of beer.

I wanted to stroke myself until I busted.

Author's Notes: Um, so, first post! :) I got the comments posted so far, and changed what I could and what seemed appropriate for my dear Adamantine to say. I do want to apologize for the childishness of the character and the writing itself. However, Adamantine *is* a teenager and... well... I was sixteen/seventeen when I wrote this. :)
Anyway, thanks for reading! I really appreciate it! :)

SECOND Author's Notes: FULLY REVISED! Yes, after like two years of working on this thing that initially took me the length of a summer to finish, I am finally properly priorizing (read: got out of the military and consequently have a LOT more time on my hands) and thus, have revised the first three chapters and posted a fourth. Go me!