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He needed bruises. He needed the marks. He needed the reminder of the event, of the pain. He was fucked up.
Spencer was alright for long periods of time, and then suddenly he wouldn’t be. It had been so long, so long sense those days, he always thought was over it. Until one day, or more correctly, one night, he wasn’t. He never received bruises, never got the marks that others did. He never had any proof. Any reason. If there were no marks, then surely that meant that there was no abuse. He was still unsure that that word even applied in this situation. All he knew definitively was that he needed bruises.
Now he was an adult and he needed the bruises.
Spencer was not a sexual man. He did not enjoy being close with someone without clothes. He did not enjoy what came after kissing. He wasn’t inexperienced, he knew what sex was like of course, just like he knew what he liked when he masturbated, quietly, quickly in his room at night, in the dark, alone, just getting it over with, enjoying the small burst of endorphins that served only to cover up the shame that came with the hypocritical feeling of what he had just done.
However, Spencer was well versed in the world of kink. He knew all about safe words, and belts, locks, levers, chains, and canes. He knew all about it. He also knew how well it went hand in hand with sex. It was, to the general population exclusive. You couldn’t have one without the other. But then there were other people. People like him, that didn’t handle sex very well. Didn’t feel anything. Felt disgusted. Felt nonchalant about it all. People that were like him and also in the community.
He needed in. He needed the bruises.
On the few occasions that Spencer had fallen, he hit the floor hard. He ended up in the hospital after his second suicide attempt after starting college. He lost his entire savings to a small bottle of liquid bliss after almost dying on a case. And, most recently, he was becoming obsessed after realizing that he could create something that masked what he felt. Something that helped him process the marks he never got before.
There was just something about the way he could color his skin. Turn it into a beautiful purple color, like the kind of clouds you see in the south right before a storm. A blue the color of the midnight sky when the stars were bright enough. Something about the green and yellow color that would show up when it was leaving. Like a hazel goodbye. He hated those. They came to soon, and he wished they wouldn’t come at all.
He was the only one that saw these goodbyes after all, no one else would understand the mourning. No one else would understand the comfort they brought. The sanity that came with the pain.
He was on a mission. He was going to get the bruises he needed.
Spencer met the man in the group online. The man was proud to show his face, seemingly unworried about anyone recognizing him, confident, dominant. Spencer was reluctant to show him his face, his pictures were carefully planned out portraits of his masterpieces. A crème colored canvas with blues and violets, violent and vibrant. He told Spencer how he wanted to hurt him. He was in the wrong group. A group for fans of bruises, ones where they were awards from sexual conquests. The man spoke of a kind of pain he had fantasized about. Seeked but not sought out. Welcomed but didn’t initiate. He could handle this.
The man was to come to the parking garage. Third floor. Far South-East corner. Spencer had described what he was wanting, what his rules were, what he looked like, and what would go down. Spencer would meet him there at his lunch break, where the man would break him, and eat him alive. It was to be the most fulfilling meal of his life.
He was going to have so many bruises.
He had been thinking about them all morning. He was ready for them now, clumsy with his thoughts, letting them out into the open, tripping over his converse, drinking his coffee before it was cool, bumping his arm. They would be so much darker than he was used to. They would last even longer. On places he wasn’t able to accomplish himself. One’s that wouldn’t pass for accidental. One’s that would cause panic. The one’s he had been waiting for.
It was going so smoothly. He was ten minutes away. 600 seconds away from being able to breath properly again. He was folding papers, stapling them and sorting them away for later, clearing his desk to show that he was getting ready for the main break of the day. He didn’t hear the first comment, ignored the second. He was caught off guard by the third. He nodded and said something about being okay, going out for lunch. Something Indian, knowing the taller, dark skin man didn’t like. He backed away and told Spencer that he would see him after lunch.
Nothing was going to stand in the way of his bruises.
The man was bigger than he looked in the pictures. Spencer didn’t mind. It just meant his hand would hold more weight. He was greeted with a smile and smack across the face. Immediately Spencer knew he would have a mark there. It should be gone by the end of the session, but that was only if it wasn’t touched again. His requests had only been listened to half way. It would be worth it. If he was able to do anything it was lie. Spencer could lie to save his life, so a few marks would be easy.
His wrists were the first to go. Pain causing his bones to ache with the pressure, blood vessels being held together by sheer pressure. As soon as the man’s hands moved to his upper arms the dark skin could be seen. His body breaking from the inside out. It made Spencer moan, which made the man press harder. He bit his shoulder, he broke the skin. He made his chest bleed. He left ring size indents between the discoloration on his thighs. Spencer was so out of it he barely noticed being rolled over. They had started by sitting in the back of the car. The black and blue marks had gone to his head, paining his memory with the same colors.
He didn’t care what the man did as long as it was rough.
That’s what he told himself again and again. This was what he wanted. This is what he needed. He needed the dark marks, the bruises, the feeling of his blood filling his body in area’s it shouldn’t. Popping ever bad thought he had ever though with each new mark. He didn’t care that he was being prepped for something much larger than the fingers that were in him now. It was rough, it was what he had asked for, and while he wasn’t good, his body was still responding the right way so he figured that it would be the same as when he did it himself, except this time the marks would last longer. That made it easier to egg the man on. To accept it.
The marks on his hips and thighs would be darkest. He didn’t mind that thought. He was never strong enough to make those marks there on his own, so it was okay. He wore pants at all times so no one else would notice, it didn’t matter. He was still working on getting the bruises, he would worry about people seeing them later. He is vaguely aware of coming, even less when the other man does. They are close enough together that he is both surprised and thankful. When he pulls out he tries to rub his arms. Rub over the dark marks he had created, thank him by kissing his wrists. Spencer pulls his arms back, pulling his clothes on quickly and mumbling his no along with his goodbye.
His legs are weak, and his head is light. His skin is dark and he is finally calm.
There is a noise then, coming from the other side of the room, it’s getting closer. He looks up and sees his friend. Derek. He’s worried. He’s yelling something at the man in the car. The man is scared, insisting he wasn’t aware he wasn’t single. He is. He’s confused. Derek is holding a gun to the man’s head, telling him to get out of the car. Spencer watches it happen. He is too high to say anything. He instead takes his friend’s phone so he can’t call for anyone else. Derek is confused, looking at the man, pants undone, lips swollen. Looking at Spencer, hair a mess, shirt open, showing the marks covering most of his body, surely more under his pants.
He doesn’t know where he went wrong, when Derek had seen them, what he thought had happened, or how he was going to explain that he invited the man here, told him to do what he did. Begged for it. Moaned for it. Traded it. He wouldn’t mention that part. That part was too close to the reason he longed for the bruises in the first part. To replace something that never was there to begin with. Something that didn’t not happen, but surely wasn’t true in the correct sense.
His bruises were never deep enough.
He convinced his friend to let the man go. He would never be seeing him again, not after his friend’s intervention. With screeching tires, he looked to his friend with a hope that he would understand. He didn’t. Claims of rape were quickly ignored. When his friend spoke of abuse Spencer looked to him. Was it? Did he finally suffer enough dark marks to replace the dark cloud in his mind? He questioned his friend. Derek took his friend home and they talked a lot, long conversations separated only by a delivery boy and a trip to the bathroom here and there.
He showed his friend the marks, all of them. He showed him the marks in his head too. The ones on his arms from years ago when he tried to take care of them himself. He showed him the tools he used to make his own marks. He showed his friend how easy it was to mark him up. He tightened his hand around his friend’s, around his own arm. He showed him how easy it was to take a genius to his knees. To make him a small child again. Showed how easy it was for him to ask for more. More attention. More marks. More.
Derek delivered his bruises from then on.
Spencer was in therapy once more. That was the condition. Derek would mark him whenever he wanted, keeping a steady light blue tone consistently. It was his reward for talking to the doctor, telling him about why he did it, about the times his father didn’t, the times the other men did and more. He told the doctor what he knew, what he thought, what he feared. It wasn’t abuse. He wanted it to be. One day it would be. Afterwards they went to dinner, somewhere they both liked, Derek and Spencer. Then afterwards his friend would help him, send him to bed with a light feeling.
On the bad days when Spencer had yelled at the doctor, or been careless at work, when he begged Derek. Harder. More. He wasn’t given any. He would cry, and curse and throw things, and Derek would catch them like a professional, handling any swings that came his way, confirming that his hands would not be causing any chaos today. Those days were the hardest. He still was unsure about the definition of his past, but he was choosing to rewrite his present with his friend. Derek didn’t mind the bad days. They found a balance of words, and bruises, moans, and whispers that had both on edge most days. Together they gave in.
He watched his bruises fade. He didn’t mind as much.