Love Hurts

Chapter Five

Copyright 2001 Marlene Taylor

Warning: This story contains rough m/m sex. If you are offended by this, or under 18, turn back now.

Disclaimer: This original work of amateur fiction is based on the TV series "The Monkees" which (as far as I know) is owned by Rhino. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright extends only to the original material in this work.


The truck rattled over the broken pavement, sending Micky up in the air each time they hit a pothole. He'd never been to this scary part of LA before and wondered how Mike knew where the hell he was.

"Where are we going?"

"Shut up," Mike answered curtly, pitching his cigarette butt out the window into the night. That was another thing - since when did Mike smoke? Once they'd gotten into the truck and driven away from the club he'd ignored Micky completely.


The evening had started out so well. A night off from playing, and they were invited to the opening of a new club where the drinks would be free and the music very very loud. Micky felt restless and horny and neglected. The affair with Christine has petered out shortly after she'd latched on to someone new at the hospital, a weird-looking foreign guy in the lab with no sense of humor; that was the end of his regular sex, and of free drugs, too. Mike had started a new sideline fixing motorcycles, which meant more money coming into the house; but he was away a lot and when he was home he was dead tired. Or maybe he wasn't gone much more than before, but it was just that Micky noticed it now. In any case, Micky's personality demanded that someone pay attention to him.

He put on the new white trousers he'd bought that very day. They were so tight that underwear was out of the question; besides, he thought he looked sexier without it. He spent some time in the bathroom arranging himself, then rubbed his cock through the front of his pants and stepped back to admire the effect. A perfect and enticing package.

Back in the bedroom, Mike watched him pull on his shirt - a purple paisley number with bell sleeves and a big loose collar - and said, "I sure wouldn't mind unwrapping that later." He came up behind Micky, standing as close as he could get without touching him.

"I thought maybe you weren't interested anymore." Part of Micky was happy that Mike still wanted him, but mostly he was annoyed that Mike thought he could just pick up where they left off without even an apology. For what, he wasn't exactly sure, but he knew he deserved one. And in any case, he was going to get laid tonight, whether by Mike or someone he met at the club. It was just a matter of time.

"I'm always interested, babe." Mike tried to press Micky's ass back against his hips but Micky pushed him away and finished dressing. "And just why are you acting this way, exactly?"

"Maybe I want something new," Micky answered: it was half a lie, just to piss Mike off, but half true, too. The last few times they'd been together had been completely predictable; Mike had gotten him naked immediately and sucked him off, and that was that. Sure, they were still the best blowjobs he'd ever had, but he was starting to miss giving something back. He'd given head to Mike exactly twice and still hadn't seen him completely undressed, much less been allowed to touch him during sex. And the novelty he'd found so exciting was gone. He wanted more.

Mike regarded him coolly. "What I got for you is so new it don't have a name."

"Prove it," Micky tossed over his shoulder as he went downstairs.

"Prove what?" Peter asked, looking up from his seat on the couch. Micky hadn't meant for anyone to hear that, but he decided to use it to stir up some trouble.

"That Mike can still pick up chicks. I said he wouldn't get laid tonight and he thinks he will."

"Are we having a contest?" asked Davy, joining the conversation. He too was dressed to the nines, and even Peter was resplendent in a red silk tunic. They turned to look at Mike as he came down the stairs: at least he had put on a clean pair of jeans, and had even managed a bolo tie with his white shirt.

"Yes," Micky said in his best announcer's voice. "The contest is on, gentlemen. Whoever gets laid first tonight is the winner, the big winner, and gets bragging rights in this house for an entire week, along with an all-expense-paid trip for two to fabulous Las Vegas."

"Based on what he's wearing tonight, I think Micky will win," Peter stated.

"Based on what he's wearing tonight, I think Micky will get arrested," Mike deadpanned.

That brought general laughter, but Mike looked directly at Micky and let his anger show for just a moment. Good, Micky thought; at least I'm getting some kind of reaction out of him. About fucking time.

Later, at the club, things had gotten nasty. They'd staked out a prime table and used it for a home base between drinks and dancing and seeing and being seen. Mike didn't dance, so he stayed put and observed the scene when he wasn't deep in conversation with people Micky didn't know. For his part, Micky was attracting a lot of attention and eventually settled on a beautiful blonde woman named Natasha who danced so close to him that her perfume rubbed off on his shirt. He knew Mike was watching him and didn't care.

At some point they all ended up at the table and threw back a round of shots. "So, who's winning?" Davy asked, looking smug. "I've got my ticket to Vegas."

"Hey, not so fast - mine is ready to go right now," Micky said, glancing in Tasha's direction. He pulled his attention away from her breasts and looked directly at Mike. "Guess you lose tonight, partner."

"Yeah, Mike, when was the last time you got any? Didn't you used to have a girlfriend once upon a time?" Davy couldn't resist rubbing it in. Mike rolled his eyes and ordered more shots.

"I don't think Mike ever gets laid. He's too uptight," Micky said. Mike shot him a warning glance, clearly marked "entering dangerous territory". Davy and Peter, sensing that the conversation had just taken a strange turn, waited to see if Micky would continue baiting Mike.

"Or maybe he just quit liking girls. Maybe he's crossed over to the other side."

"Mick, you shouldn't say that. Mike has lady friends," Peter said, trying to prevent a fight.

"How would you know?" Micky asked, incredulous. Peter and Mike exchanged a look.

"We havemutual friends," Peter said. "You don't know them."

"You mean that motorcycle crowd? Maybe that's where all that extra money comes from - engine repairs and blowjobs on the side!"

Silence descended on their table amidst all the noise and music. Davy tossed down the rest of his drink and stood to leave, shaking his head. "I dunno what your problem is, but you're on your own, mate," he said, and got the hell out of there.

"Very uncool, Micky," Peter said. "You really need to learn some manners. And we have a far more pressing matter: we're out of meth. Mike, I was hoping you could speak to our mutual friends about it." He slipped Mike a handful of bills under the table. "I'd do it myself, butyou know."

"I'm on it." Speed was Mike's favorite drug. He stuffed the money in his pocket and walked around the table; at the very last moment he paused and dug his fingers into Micky's shoulder. "And you're coming with me."


Eventually they pulled into the parking lot of a bar - a biker bar, from what he could see. Loud music blared from the open windows, punctuated by screaming laughter and the sound of bottles breaking. Five or six big leather-clad guys sat on their Harleys in the lot, talking quietly. They nodded in a familiar way to Mike as he approached; obviously they were on good terms.

"She up there?" Mike asked, jerking his chin upwards, towards a dimly lit door at the top of a flight of wooden stairs outside the bar.

"No, man, gone for the weekend." The one who answered him, an older dude with a beard, looked Micky up and down. Mike, in his jeans and fringed jacket, didn't stand out here, but Micky must have looked like he just stepped out of the circus. He tried to look nonchalant.

Mike nodded his thanks and started up the stairs.

"Hey, man, I hope you're gonna share that," the dude called, and the rest of the group burst out laughing.

"Fuck you, Bear," Mike said, not even turning around. He unlocked the door with a key from his ring - why did he have a key to this place on his ring? - and walked straight through the apartment, leaving Micky to close the door. It was clean but cluttered with bike parts, drug paraphernalia, and clothes - women's clothes. It didn't belong to the guys downstairs, then. Maybe he really did have a girlfriend, and this was where she lived? The vodka he'd had wasn't making him any less confused. They were supposed to be scoring speed, and now they were in some weird biker place where no one was home and the music thumped beneath his feet and just what the hell was going on anyway?

"Mike?" he called, peering tentatively into a dark room lit by a tiny lamp on the floor, where he could just make out a bed. Suddenly a hand grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him through the doorway and slammed him against the wall. Mike gripped his arms hard and lifted him clear off the floor till they were eye to eye. He was well and truly pissed.

Oh, shit, Micky thought. I think I'm gonna die.

"Don't you never, ever do that to me again." His voice was low and dangerous. "Do not talk about who I fuck or what I do in bed or *anything* like that ever again. You understand me?" Micky nodded, too scared to do anything else.

Mike let him drop to his feet. "And what kind of other shit are you trying to pull on me? Dancing with that girl like you were gonna fuck her on the dance floor? You *are* a fucking whore, Micky, and now I'm gonna treat you like one." He grabbed Micky's ass in both hands and squeezed hard. "And this whore needs to be taught a lesson."

He kissed him harshly, forcing his tongue between reluctant lips, grinding his hips against Micky's. The kisses turned into sharp bites on the tender skin of his neck while Mike's hands worked to untie the silk scarf Micky had used as a belt. For one crystal clear moment Micky felt completely sober and he understood that this was a bad place to be, a bad time to be there, and that bad things were going to happen to him. He had asked for it - more than asked, he'd sent an invitation special delivery - but now he had to get out. He gathered his energy and concentrated it into one frantic shove designed to push Mike far enough away that he could run out of the place and not look back till he saw the lights of Hollywood. But it didn't work; fear had drained his strength; and Mike easily pressed him back against the wall, then cuffed his sharply on the side of the head. Micky saw stars.

"No use fighting. Ain't worth it," he snapped. Dragging Micky over to the big, low-slung bed, Mike cleared it with one sweep of his arm and shoved him face down on the sheet. The clothes he'd chosen so carefully were stripped off and flung into a dark corner; and when the fog faded from his brain he realized his hands were tied tightly together and then to the frame at the head of the bed. I guess Mike really is a cowboy if he can truss me up with a silk scarf, Micky thought inanely; he could do anything to me and I can't stop him. And he knew what 'anything' meant tonight: Mike was going to fuck him. The thought sent shivers up his spine. He was naked and helpless and Mike was going to ram that big hard cock into him till he begged - and he'd probably be begging for more. Mike's fingers inside him, touching that secret spot, that was incredibly hot - but, oh god, what he could do with that cock, deep inside, pinning him to the bed when all he could do was lie there and be fucked. He had never been more afraid or more turned on.

He heard the awful hiss of Mike's belt being drawn through the loops of his jeans and his fear went into overdrive. Before he could prepare himself, the belt whistled through the air and connected with his tender ass, leaving a red-hot welt angry against the pale skin. Micky howled, and screamed louder when then next stroke fell, wanting to drown out the crack of the leather each time it scored him. Six strokes and it was over; he'd survived his lesson, and waited, breathless and stunned and properly obedient, for whatever came next.

Mike knelt next to him on the bed and observed his handiwork. Gently he caressed the six red stripes marking Micky's round, tight ass cheeks, skimming his fingers over smooth skin crisscrossed with streaks of crimson; then he bent his neck and softly, very softly, he traced the marks with his tongue. It stung sharply, and Micky flinched, but then the air was cool over the wetness and it felt much better. Mike grew more passionate, licking and sucking the delectable flesh, covering him with rough kisses. He pulled Micky up by the hips to give him a better angle of attack, and then carefully parted his firm cheeks to reveal the center of his attention.

Micky waited impatiently for whatever was coming next, gasping as he felt Mike's breath on his sweaty skin, then moaning loudly in unbelievable pleasure as Mike's tongue worked its magic on him, circling the entrance to his body for a while before he moved lower to suck on his balls, each in turn. Mike took his time, and Micky knew that he was pausing every few minutes to watch his victim writhe helplessly, firmly tethered to the bed. Micky felt Mike lean over the edge of the bed to rummage around in a box on the floor till he found some things - Micky couldn't see what - and then he casually slid his index finger deep inside, making direct contact with that magic button, making Micky gasp. Soon there were two fingers, then three, stretching him, working his asshole, caressing that spot on every stroke. Mike reached between his legs to squeeze his cock, urging him on, and Micky responded, spreading his legs wider.

"Gonna grease you up," Mike informed him. The lube was cold on his skin as Mike's fingers finished their preparations. Then the fingers were replaced with a firm pressure that meant business.

"You are so ready to be fucked. You slut." He pressed a little harder. "Tell me what you want. Give it to me, boy," he commanded.

"Do it, please do it," Micky moaned.

"Do what?" Mike wasn't going to make it easy.

"Fuck me, fuck me right now," he pleaded, meaning it, but hating to have to say it all the same.

"You want to be fucked hard?" he asked, bringing his hand around to stroke Micky's rock-hard erection again.

"Yes, yessss..."

"You want me to fuck your brains out?"

"Please, please, just do it" Micky panted, out of his mind with desire and anticipation.

"So good" Mike said to himself, and drove his slippery cock through the tight ring of muscle and into fantastic heat. Micky cried out: he couldn't help it, it hurt, but he willed himself to relax. Mike pushed harder, sliding in an inch at a time, and Micky could feel himself being stretched to the limit by Mike's thick rod, filling him and possessing him.

"Oh sweet jesus," Mike murmured, buried up to the hilt in Micky's ass. He held still, getting control of himself, then rocked his hips slowly, letting his cock slide in and out just a little. Under him Micky clutched the bed; it was wonderfully terrible, every movement a burning ache that ended in a dose of pleasure as Mike's cockhead pressed against that special place inside. The rhythm got faster as Mike fucked him harder, thrusting deeply and groaning with excitement. The pain got worse and Micky couldn't stop himself from tensing up and holding his breath to keep quiet.

Mike pushed his fist under Micky's nose. "Breathe deep."

Micky heard something snap in Mike's hand as he obeyed and in the next second everything became a blur of sound and motion: a cold kerosene smell filled his head and the temperature seemed to rise twenty degrees; blood roared in his ears and pounded through his body. It was like the highest drop on the fastest roller coaster, like a Marshall amp feeding back at top volume directly into his brain, like strobe lights going off an inch in front of his face. For a moment he had the distinct impression that he was rising above his body, suspended in midair for a split second, and then falling, falling, slamming back into reality and coming hard into Mike's hand, clenching around the cock that pounded into him faster and faster until Mike reached his climax and collapsed on top of him. The rush faded away into a hum and then to a very pleasant languor: he was feeling no pain, and he tasted both relief and regret when Mike finally slipped out.

Micky lay flat on his stomach, eyes focused on the knots at his wrists. His hands were beginning to go numb; all the twisting around he'd been doing had pulled the scarf even tighter. As if sensing this, Mike moved to untie him from the bed, keeping his hands bound together, just a little looser. Obviously he wasn't done with this scene.

"What did you give me?" Micky asked idly. He still felt slightly euphoric from whatever he'd inhaled.

"Amyl." Mike showed him the broken capsule. Incredibly, he was still fully dressed, his untucked shirt the only evidence that he'd just fucked Micky half to death. Mike pulled him up so they were sitting face to face.

"You liked that." A statement, not a question.


"You never said stop." Mike seemed to find this very amusing.

He was right. Micky hadn't said it, hadn't even thought it. As scared as he'd been, he hadn't wanted Mike to quit doing whatever he was doing. Why was that? Why -

His train of thought was interrupted by someone pounding on the door of the apartment.

"Mike! Let us in, you bastard! Open up!" The noise got louder.

"Now what?" Mike muttered to himself, getting up. He stopped at the bedroom door and turned to Micky. "Just be quiet and stay put. Don't unlock the door till they're gone. I mean it." He turned the lock and closed the door quietly behind him.

More knocking, and then kicking. "Just a goddamn minute!" Mike yelled.

Moving as slowly as he could, Micky found his pants on the floor and struggled into them, wanting to feel a little less vulnerable. The knots in the scarf weren't coming undone any time soon, so he figured he might as well sit near the door and listen to what went down in the next room. He saw Mike's belt on the floor next to him and hastily kicked it away.

He heard the door open and the sound of heavy boots on the wooden floor.

"Bear, T.C.," Mike said casually. "Nice to see you again. What do you want?"

"Beer," a gravelly voice answered.

"There's a bar downstairs full of beer. Ain't good enough for you?"

"Down there we have to pay. Up here is free." Micky recognized Bear's voice.

"Don't matter to me," Mike said. "If there's beer you can have it. Just take it with you."

"That's not being very friendly. Who's your friend, Mikey?" T.C. asked.

Mike ignored this. "Hey, T.C., are you holding?" The refrigerator door opened and Micky heard a happy shout from Bear; then everything disintegrated into a jumble of noise as voices lowered and the clank of bottles got louder. Something metallic hit the floor and chair legs scraped back and forth.

"Are we done here? This ain't no party," Mike said wearily.

"Come on, man, the fun's just starting," Bear laughed. "Find your pal and give him a drink. He is a dude, right? Kinda look like a chick to me."

"Bear, what do you want?" Micky could tell that Mike's very small reserve of patience was about to run out.

"Hell, right now I want a blowjob! That whore of yours has a real wide mouth and I want some of that!"

Oh shit, he's talking about ME, Micky realized. He tried to communicate telepathically through the door: Mike, please save my ass before I get gang-raped by a bunch of horny bikers; they'll rape me and kill me and I'm too pretty to die.

Mike groaned. "First of all, he's not a pro, and second, he sure ain't interested in you, pindick. Nona says you can't keep it up for more than five minutes, anyways."

T.C. guffawed and Micky heard something - a bottle? - fly across the room. Bear's boots thumped across the apartment and stopped just outside the bedroom door. Instinctively Micky scrambled back, wishing he was anywhere else, or invisible, or at least a lot bigger and without his fucking hands tied together.

"Listen, you son of a bitch, cut the shit and tell me where he is. You owe me," Bear said angrily; he cursed again when he realized the door was locked.

"I owe you a good ass-kicking, but I been too busy to attend to it." Mike's voice was just a little too cool. "And speakin' of that, Bear, you should get your brakes checked. I don't recall if I checked them myself when I worked on your hog. You know how they can go just like *that*." He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.

Micky could feel the tension in the living room right through the door. The silence stretched out for a long minute. Finally T.C. laughed in a friendly way.

"Sorry, dude, you lose this round. You should learn to take care of your toys. Let's go before he really does kick your ass." Bear moved away from the door and Micky blew out a sigh of relief.

"Don't forget your beer, thanks for stopping by, I'll leave a note in the fridge," Mike said over the noise of bottles and boots.

"Fuck you," Bear snarled.

"Yeah, fuck you too," Mike replied, and then the door banged shut.

"Jesus goddamn Christ," Mike said - to no one, Micky hoped. Water ran somewhere for a while, then the doorknob rattled. "Micky, open up. They're gone."

Micky edged slowly toward the door, still full of adrenaline and not quite ready to believe they'd left.

"Come on, Micky, it's just me. They won't come back. Let me in," Mike coaxed.

Micky turned the lock and opened the door just a crack to see Mike smiling at him, seemingly unruffled by what had - and hadn't - happened. Mike looked down at Micky's pants, zipped but not fastened; he hadn't been able to manage the button with his hands tied.

"Going somewhere?" Mike asked.

"Jesus, Mike, who are those guys?" Micky demanded, his voice shaking.

"They're just punks. Don't you worry 'bout them." Mike began to untie the scarf around Micky's wrists. "We don't need this no more, do we?"

"No. I won't" he trailed off. His hands were still trembling as Mike threw the scarf on the floor. Mike noticed and took him by the shoulders.

"I won't let nobody hurt you. Never. You understand me?"

Micky nodded. "Butwhy did you let them in? And who's Nona?"

Mike cocked an eyebrow at him. "Any other questions?"

"Yes! Whose apartment is this? And how do you know those guys? And why do you have a key? And -" The rush of words slowed down a little as Mike slid his arms around his waist and began squeezing his ass. "And are we staying here all night? And - and - "He swallowed and took a deep breath as Mike pressed their hips together. "And are you gonna fuck me again?"

"Hell yes," Mike growled.


Mike fucked him twice more than night.

The first time was on his back on the floor: slow, slow, and torturous, as Mike brought him to the edge of release again and again and then backed off, leaving him close to tears, needing to come just to stay sane. He understood that it was another lesson; and when Mike finally allowed him to come, he was grateful.

The second time was around dawn, as the pink light started to filter in through the dirty blinds; Mike sprawled him over the back of the couch in the tiny living room. This time it was effortless. After a minimum of preparation Mike slid into him smoothly, completely, and began to move back and forth a little at a time. Curiously, Micky wasn't terribly aroused, probably since he'd come twice already - unlike Mike, who was as hard as ever and didn't seem the least bit tired. It felt good; yes, it felt very very very good to relax and let Mike do what he wanted. Little explosions of pleasure raced through him, mini-orgasms of heat: he'd never felt anything like it before and it delighted him. There was no desperate rush toward the goal of coming; in fact, there was no goal, no destination, just Mike fucking him and him being fucked and enjoying it so much that it could have gone on forever in that moment. He was so high on this feeling that he was suddenly very aware of Mike, his breathing, his hands tight on Micky's hips, and the hardness that joined them. He could tell Mike was getting close now - the thrusts were faster, deeper, his panting turned into moans, and at the end he threw his arms around Micky's waist and pulled their bodies tight together.

Micky was sorry it was over. He was not sorry that he'd provoked Mike, or that they'd come to this place, or that he'd lost his virginity yet again. His world has just taken one more hairpin turn; it was a damn good thing that Mike was the best driver he knew.

"Mike?" he asked softly.


"Who's Nona?"

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