Bring handcuffs for Billy

[billyinri]

The elastic waistband of Billy's boxers had snapped three days ago, leaving a frayed edge that kept catching on his hip bone. He'd meant to buy new ones, but the thought of standing in the underwear aisle at Target made his face hot, so he kept wearing the torn pair, tugging them straight whenever they bunched up under his jeans.

It was one of those late September afternoons where the air felt thick with unfinished business—not quite summer, not yet autumn—and Billy found himself driving aimlessly past the Park & Ride off Route 117. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel to a song he'd turned off ten minutes prior. The lot was half-empty, just a few commuter cars and a dented pickup with an "I Brake for Moose" bumper sticker. He parked near the trailhead, where a sun-bleached sign warned hikers about ticks.

Billy hesitated before stepping onto the trail, his sneakers crunching on the gravel shoulder. The path curved into the trees, dappled sunlight shifting as wind moved through the leaves overhead. He adjusted his backpack—a nervous habit—though all it held was an unopened water bottle and his car keys. The woods smelled like damp earth and something faintly metallic, like old pennies.

A branch cracked somewhere to his right. Billy turned, expecting a squirrel or maybe a stray dog, but the movement came from further back near the parking lot. Three figures lingered between cars, their postures too still for casual loitering. One of them raised a hand—not quite a wave, more like marking territory—before they started walking toward the trailhead. Billy forced himself to breathe normally. He'd come here before. Nothing ever happened.

Billy's pace quickened without meaning to, his sneakers scuffing against roots that ribbed the dirt path like exposed veins. The men’s footsteps behind him kept time—close enough that he could hear the jingle of keys in someone’s pocket, far enough that he could pretend they weren’t following him if he tried hard enough. He veered left where the trail forked, taking the narrower branch that wound deeper into the trees. The canopy thickened here, swallowing the afternoon light whole.

The first hand on his shoulder didn’t startle him as much as the fact that it was gentle—almost apologetic—before spinning him around. “Hey,” the man said, his breath sour with convenience store coffee. He was older than Billy by a decade at least, his plaid shirt sleeves rolled to show faded jailhouse ink. The other two fanned out behind him, blocking the path back. One smirked; the other chewed his thumbnail raw.

Billy's backpack slipped off his shoulder and thudded to the ground, the plastic water bottle inside rolling free. The man in plaid stepped closer, his work boots crushing dry leaves into powder. "You look lost," he said, though his eyes never left Billy's crotch. The other two chuckled—a wet, nasal sound from the thumbnail chewer, something lower and meaner from his smirking friend. Billy's mouth opened, but his throat had sealed itself shut.

The first punch landed just below his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs in a single pained wheeze. Billy doubled over, only to be yanked upright by his hair. "Easy now," the plaid-shirted man murmured, as if soothing a spooked horse. His palm ground against Billy's erection through the denim, calloused fingers tracing the outline of it with clinical interest. Billy whimpered—equal parts terror and unwelcome arousal—as the man's grip tightened viciously. "That's what I thought," he said, and shoved Billy backward into the waiting arms of the others.

Billy’s back hit the rough bark of an oak tree before he could twist free. The smirking one—grease under his fingernails, the acrid scent of motor oil clinging to his jacket—wrenched Billy’s arms behind him with practiced efficiency. Cold metal bit into his wrists as handcuffs clicked shut. “Stay,” the man murmured, patting Billy’s cheek like he was a dog.

The plaid-shirted man crouched, fingers hooking into the torn waistband of Billy’s boxers. The fabric gave way with a sound like tearing paper. Billy squeezed his eyes shut, but the sudden rush of air against his exposed skin made his stomach lurch. Someone whistled low—not appreciation, but the kind of noise you’d make at a car wreck.

Billy’s knees buckled as the plaid-shirted man’s fingers dug into his thighs, spreading him wider against the tree. The bark scraped his bare ass raw, but the pain was nothing compared to the humiliation burning through him. A strangled sob escaped his throat when the man spat into his palm, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet woods. “Look at that,” the man muttered, nodding toward Billy’s traitorous erection. “Little faggot’s dripping already.” The other two laughed—sharp, ugly sounds that made Billy’s skin crawl.

The first thrust tore a scream from Billy’s lips, his body arching away instinctively, only to be slammed back against the tree. The man grunted, his breath hot and ragged against Billy’s neck as he set a brutal pace. Tears blurred Billy’s vision, but he could still see the witnesses—four now, maybe five—lingering at the edge of the clearing. One of them, a guy in a Patriots cap, had his hand shoved down his pants, his eyes locked on Billy’s trembling legs. Another muttered, “Jesus Christ,” but didn’t move. Billy’s begging dissolved into incoherent hiccups, his wrists chafing bloody against the cuffs.

The rapist’s grip on Billy’s hips tightened, fingers digging into flesh like he was trying to leave permanent marks. Billy’s legs shook uncontrollably, his toes curling in the dirt as his body betrayed him, reacting to the assault with a humiliating, unwanted pleasure. “Say it,” the man growled into his ear, his breath reeking of cigarettes. “Say you want this.” Billy clenched his teeth, shaking his head violently, until the man twisted his fingers into Billy’s hair and yanked his head back against the tree. “Say it, or I’ll make sure you never walk right again.”

Tears streaked Billy’s face as he choked out the words, voice cracking under the weight of his shame. “I—I want this.” The men watching let out a chorus of jeers and dark laughter, one of them spitting into the leaves near Billy’s feet. The rapist didn’t slow his rhythm, grinding Billy against the bark with each thrust. “Louder,” he demanded, his free hand smacking Billy’s ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. “Tell them what you’re getting.”

Billy sobbed openly now, his throat raw. “I—I’m getting HIV as a free gift from this man.” The words tasted like bile in his mouth. The man behind him chuckled, low and satisfied, while one of the witnesses—a gaunt guy with a patchy beard—groaned and came in his own hand, his eyes never leaving Billy’s exposed body. Another shouted, “Gag him and keep going!” as if this were some twisted spectator sport.

The rapist obliged, shoving Billy’s own torn boxers into his mouth, muffling his cries. Billy’s mind spiraled—this was the fantasy he’d secretly gotten off to for years, the [banned word] scenario he’d never dared speak aloud. Now it was real, and the horror of it clawed at his chest. He could feel the man’s climax building, the ragged breathing against his neck, the way his thrusts grew erratic. When it finally happened, Billy gagged around the fabric in his mouth, his body shuddering with revulsion and something else, something darker—relief that it was almost over.

The rapist stepped back with a grunt, wiping himself off with Billy’s discarded T-shirt before tossing it into the dirt. The handcuffs clicked open, and Billy’s arms dropped limply to his sides, blood rushing back into his bruised wrists. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t want to see their faces. He just pulled his pants up with trembling hands, the denim sticking to his skin in places he didn’t want to think about.

The witnesses lingered, their eyes still on him, as if waiting for an encore. One of them—the Patriots cap guy—snorted and said, “Serves you right, you little cock tease.” Billy didn’t reply. He just stumbled toward the trail, his legs unsteady, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He made it to his car without looking back, fumbling with the keys before collapsing into the driver’s seat. The steering wheel was cold under his forehead as he finally let himself break down, sobbing until his ribs ached.

Three weeks later, the clinic called with his results. The word “positive” echoed in his skull long after he hung up. That night, alone in his bedroom, Billy touched himself for the first time since the woods, replaying every degrading moment in his head until he came with a choked cry. The guilt should have swallowed him whole. Instead, he felt something worse—a twisted kind of freedom. He was marked now, owned in a way he couldn’t undo. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that knowledge made him smile in the dark.

The digital clock on Billy’s nightstand blinked 3:17 AM when he finally gave up on sleep. His sheets were damp with sweat, twisted around his legs like restraints. He sat up, rubbing at his wrists—the bruises had faded, but the skin there still felt tender, as if the cuffs had left invisible marks that only he could feel. The HIV pamphlet from the clinic lay crumpled on his desk, its cheerful infographics at odds with the cold weight in his chest.

Billy padded to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror until the last possible second. When he finally looked, his reflection surprised him—dark circles under his eyes, yes, but also a new sharpness to his cheekbones, a hunger in his own gaze that hadn’t been there before. He traced the bite mark on his collarbone, long since scabbed over, and wondered if it would scar. Part of him hoped it would.

The shower spray stung his back where bark had scraped him raw, but he turned the temperature hotter anyway, letting the pain ground him. His hands moved mechanically, washing away nothing. When he reached between his legs, his breath hitched—not from fear, but from the traitorous throb of arousal that flared at the memory of rough hands holding him down. He came silently against the tiles, his knees buckling as shame and pleasure twisted together in his gut.

At work the next day, Billy caught his coworker Jeff staring at his neck during their morning meeting. Jeff quickly looked away when Billy met his eyes, but not before Billy saw the flicker of recognition—and something darker, more calculating—in his expression. Later, in the break room, Jeff "accidentally" brushed against him while reaching for the coffee pot, his fingers lingering a beat too long on Billy’s hip. "Rough night?" Jeff murmured, nodding to the fresh scratches Billy had left on his own thighs in the shower. Billy’s pulse spiked, equal parts panic and thrill.

That evening, Billy found himself driving past the Park & Ride again. He didn’t pull in, just slowed enough to see the dented pickup still parked near the trailhead. His hands tightened on the wheel. Part of him wanted to burn the place down; another part wanted to walk back into those woods and wait. Instead, he drove home, where he spent hours scrolling through hookup apps, deleting and redownloading them in a cycle of self-loathing. When a faceless profile messaged him "I’ll make you scream," Billy blocked them immediately—then came harder than he had in weeks imagining what they might have done to him.

The clinic counselor had told him to report the assault. Billy had laughed until he cried. Now, lying in bed with his laptop open, he stared at the blank text box of an anonymous confession forum. His fingers hovered over the keys. *I let it happen*, he typed, then deleted. *I wanted it*, he tried, but that wasn’t quite true either. In the end, he settled on a single sentence: *I’m not the same person anymore.* He closed the laptop without posting it. Outside his window, a car engine growled to life—someone leaving, or arriving. Billy pressed a hand to his racing heart and wondered if this feeling would ever stop.

The sound of gravel popping under tires startled Billy awake at 4:03 AM. His bedroom window faced the parking lot of his apartment complex, and for a disorienting second, he thought he was back in the Park & Ride—body pressed into dirt, the metallic taste of fear thick on his tongue. But it was just Mrs. Kowalski's son coming home from his night shift at the refinery, his boots scraping concrete as he trudged upstairs. Billy exhaled, his fingers unclenching from the sheets.

He reached for his phone out of habit, thumbing through Grindr notifications with a detached curiosity. Three faceless profiles had messaged him since midnight—*hung top 4 tight hole* and *discreet car fun?* and the one that made his stomach twist: *like it rough?* Billy's thumb hovered over the last one. He could almost smell the motor oil and coffee breath again, feel the bark biting into his thighs. His free hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers before he could stop it.

The knock at his door came as he was finishing, a sharp rap that sent his pulse skittering. Billy froze, come cooling on his fingers. No one ever visited at this hour. Through the peephole, the distorted fisheye view showed Jeff from work leaning against the hallway wall, a six-pack dangling from one hand. "Saw your light on," Jeff called, voice muffled through the door. Billy watched as Jeff scratched at his neck—right where the bite mark would be if Billy hadn't worn a turtleneck to the office.

Billy opened the door three inches, the chain lock taut. Jeff's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Can't sleep either, huh?" He hefted the beer like a peace offering. Billy noticed the grease under Jeff's nails, the way his shoulders filled the doorway. It wasn't plaid, but the red-checkered flannel was close enough.

"You shouldn't be here," Billy said, but his fingers were already unhooking the chain.

—

The clinic had given him pamphlets on PTSD, on safe sex after seroconversion, on "reclaiming your body." None of them mentioned this: Jeff's calloused palm sliding up his thigh under the kitchen table, the way Billy's breath hitched when Jeff's thumb found the raw spot on his inner thigh where he'd scratched himself raw in the shower. None of the pamphlets warned about the electric thrill of seeing the hunger in Jeff's eyes when Billy "accidentally" spilled beer on his own shirt, the fabric clinging to his collarbones.

"You're fucked up," Jeff murmured against Billy's neck later, pinning his wrists to the mattress with one hand. It wasn't a question. Billy arched into it, his hips stuttering when Jeff's teeth found the half-healed bite mark. The pain was bright and clean, cutting through the fog that had settled in his skull since the woods.

—

Morning light revealed the bruises in brutal clarity. Jeff had left before dawn, taking the empty beer bottles with him. Billy traced the fingerprint-shaped marks on his wrists—lighter than the handcuffs, but darker in some unnameable way. His phone buzzed: a text from Jeff. *Same time tomorrow?*

Billy didn't reply. Instead, he dressed carefully—long sleeves despite the unseasonable warmth—and drove to the Park & Ride. The dented pickup was gone, but the trailhead remained, the tick warning sign still bleached from the sun. He stood there for twenty minutes, watching a middle-aged couple in matching hiking gear emerge from the trees, their laughter carrying across the asphalt.

Back in his car, Billy finally texted Jeff back: *Bring handcuffs.* He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and peeled out of the lot, gravel spraying behind him. The woods receded in his rearview mirror, but the itch under his skin remained. Somewhere between Route 117 and the on-ramp to I-95, Billy realized he was grinning.