A year had passed since Marwood had first left him, but then he was back after what seemed like no time at all. Yet it wasn't Marwood who came back, it was a bearded, suited, fucking terrifying bastard with a blonde little bitch of a wife.



Withnail was waiting in his horrifyingly small room (more like a fucking cubicle) at the doss house. Without Marwood, there had been no way he could have managed in that apartment. Marwood sorted out the rent, the bills, everything. There was no chance of him getting out of here but he had hot dinners most nights and the money to get as wrecked as possible all because of Marwood. Only right that he should play the whore after nearly getting Marwood buggered by Monty.


'Oi, Marwood! Come over 'ere, your boyfriend's having a tantrum!'



That was ages ago, back in drama school, where everything was going to turn out fine. Still on speaking terms with his family, still a wealthy, posh bitch with an arrogance to match, still could ride Marwood under the pile of costumes.



The shot glass was shaking in his hand, he didn't know why the fuck didn't he just lodge a bullet in his brain and have it all be over. But fuck this, he didn't have to wait for Marwood, he was going to go out and get wrecked. Even if he would end up ill. Outside was freezing and he had to sell his coat to pay for rent long ago.



Withnail was so pissed that when he got chucked out of the pub, the moment the cold air hit him his legs buckled and he had to crawl back home, shards of broken glass in his hands going unnoticed. He was doing okay so far, home couldn't be too far away and he hadn't collapsed yet. But then a fancy car pulled up in front of him, and Marwood stepped out, not saying a word.



'Why you stalking me?'



'You filthy, stupid little cunt. Get up.'



When it became clear that he couldn't, Marwood hauled him up by his collar and slammed him into the nearest wall. As Withnail recoiled (fucking coward to the very end aren't you, boy?), his expression lightened and his smile was sickly-sweet. Letting him go and kicking him lightly in the chest when he fell to the ground.



'If you get on your knees and get me off, then we'll forget this ever happened. Okay, lovey?'



Withnail really did try and get into the position that Marwood wanted him, but his legs were betraying him, refusing to listen the message that played in his head. 'Please your Master, make him happy and you won't get killed by that screwdriver.' Like a good friend, Marwood helped by gripping hard onto Withnail's hair and rubbing his suited crotch into his face. If it weren't that he couldn't breathe and the zipper was painful, he might have thanked him.



Not looking up, aware that the wankers on the street were his audience and sober enough to still feel humiliated, he pulled Marwood's tight-fitting trousers down and felt that little bit sickened when he got a faceful of half-hard cock. He took it in at once, might as well get to the worst part as quickly as possible.



He was proven right and his nostrils were tightly pinched shut within at most, ten minutes. He couldn't help himself, he fought and panicked, eyes watering from not being able to breathe. But Marwood just held him there and laughed.



'Faster you can lick it clean, faster you can breathe again.'



Like a good pet, Withnail worked his tongue as hard as he could, trying to resist the urge to cover the man's cock with sick and trying to ignore the fact that he was going to die from this if he didn't finish Marwood off soon.



Judging by the groans, and the knuckles going white in his hair, Marwood was close. Praying that this would work, he bit down gently and was rewarded with a near-scream, a harder tug of his hair, come flowing down his throat and finally, finally he could breathe again.



Marwood had pushed him back and was now re-zipping his trousers. He looked impassively at the sight of his old friend curled up into a ball with his hair standing on end.



'Next time, do as you're fucking told.'



With that, he walked briskly off, leaving Withnail still half-sobbing and gasping for breath in the street.



*Lover - Love is the most beautiful of dreams and the worst of nightmares.*



Withnail was in bed, one hand clutching the thin sheet and the other clutching a bottle of whisky. Currently having a nightmare that the fairies at the bottom of his childhood garden were plotting to kill him. But voices from outside (coming closer) woke him up.



‘Oh, Master, please…’ a lady voice was giggling.



‘I know you want it. Just say the word, Lucy.’ Marwood.



‘You know I do, just not where all these poor people can watch.’ The door creaked open and there they both were. The man who he had been in love with for the past five years and his wife, who had reduced him to sobbing like a little girl in a pub toilet when he had found out.



But it was typical, he had only a nightshirt on and looked like scum and they both looked posh and happy, with a tight-fitting suit and an evening dress.



'But honey, why do I have to be here? It reeks of booze and despair,' stealing a quick glance at Withnail and wrinkling her nose, 'No offense.'



'None taken,' Withnail said softly, wishing he could stick that bleach-blonde head down his old sink.



'Don't think so violently, Withnail,' Marwood said, like he was talking to a six year old.



Withnail winced. 'Fucking stop that.'



The woman, Lucy, was looking far more interested now.



'And why should I? You haven't been so good lately.'



'Why don't you just bend me over your knee and spank me in front of your wife?' (Curse you and your huge, moronic mouth.)



Marwood smiled. 'I would rather snap your neck with my boot. I've always wanted to, even before.'



A small, attention-seeking cough sounded from the bed.



'If you two were to fuck each other until you couldn't stand it anymore then please, don't mind me.' Her eyes were positively gleaming.



Playing with the ends of his suit jacket, Marwood went over to her and kissed her neck.



'Silly girl, we wouldn't do that. I bought you over so here so you could be included. Isn't that right, Withnail?'



'Not a fucking chance. If you need me, I’ll have collapsed on the pub floor.' He made a move to get his clothes.



Lucy giggled and Marwood looked disappointed again.



'Oh, come on. I know you're as queer as a Christmas tree but at least join in, it might make me like you.'



Withnail struggled. 'I'm sorry but I can't. I'll watch alright? And you can do whatever you want to me afterwards.' Please, Master, let that be okay...



‘Anything I want?’



Withnail looked down at the ground. ‘As many toys as you want.’



Marwood grinned and went back to teasing his wife. Except that it was as much as teasing Withnail as it was teasing her. Even when he had taken off her clothes and running his hands down her pale thighs, he wasn't looking at her.



'Scream for me...'



'Oh god, Master, please.'



'Good girl.'



Marwood was pressing his humming screwdriver to Lucy’s pussy like some kind of vibrator and she was gasping, mouth in a perfect ‘O’, head thrown back and grabbing every piece of his body that she could, the body that was rightfully his.



Anymore of this and Withnail was going to crack. His own cock was rock hard, Marwood's back was glistening with sweat and he couldn't help but see the toys in Marwood's overcoat pocket. (Bigger on the inside.)



When he returned from the bathroom, having talked loudly with the huge wanker taking a bath to cover the orgasmic screams, they were both sitting up, looking flushed and thoroughly fucked.



‘Lucy, darling, why don’t you go freshen up in the bathroom for a while? Ignore anyone who might come in.’



As she went off, Withnail took off his shirt and took her position, lying down on the bed and spread out for Marwood’s enjoyment. Marwood’s smile was small as he pressed the screwdriver to Withnail’s neck. (Sex toy, weapon, makes no difference.)



‘Do you want to die, Withnail?’



Taking Withnail’s silence as confirmation, he continued. ‘Because I can press a button on here and it’s ‘Goodbye, Withnail,’ for good. You could stay here, rot away and nobody would give a flying fuck.’



Resisting the urge to just beg Marwood to do it, he said instead, ‘Would you shut it and fuck me?’



Marwood laughed as he shuddered ever so slightly at the cold lube being lathered over his arsehole. The black butt plug was right there, waiting. But they hadn’t got to that yet. Delicate fingers were dancing over his cock, just begging him to come and on Marwood's other hand, two fingers were reaching in inside his arsehole, curling.


‘Marwood, please.’



‘Wrong address.’



He wasn’t going to, wasn’t going to call him by that name. Not even when Marwood was pushing the butt plug in and out so fucking gently. Not even when their cocks were rubbing against each other…



‘Use my name.’



‘Master.’



It felt so good to lose all the dignity he had left.



*Master - Master, go on, and I will follow thee to the last gasp with truth and loyalty.*



The small room was like a fucking igloo. Cracks through the walls and a broken window weren’t helping and the two naked men were desperately trying to get warm.



Withnail offered up no resistance as his tie was looped round his wrists and they were attached to the bar. He closed his eyes and his body tensed with the cold and the fear when he saw the tiny sharp knife in Marwood’s hand.



Marwood was making shallow cuts with his pen-knife all over his body. This wasn't about getting Withnail off, it was for his own pleasure, enjoying the old-time patterns that marked themselves out on Withnail's pale skin. The blood was trickling out, staining the off-white sheets. But enough of that, it was time to get inside.



He placed his hands to Withnail's temples and showed him images that he could never understand. Fire and snow were mingling. Red grass and orange sky were both flaming and Marwood was inside his head, twisting every cell and reaching in under his skin, intent on making Withnail burn and beg and scream. Marwood came with a groan on his stomach, his come making the blood pink and Withnail came with a 'Master' on the already-filthy sheets, blood already drying on them.



But the pleasure wasn't about to last. Marwood rose, not saying a word and entered the small bathroom. He came out and put his clothes on, leaving his boots and leather gloves until last. Not for the first time, Withnail was getting scared. Marwood was looking anywhere but at him, with a glazed look in his eyes. His aching body was freezing and bloody, his tie looping his wrists to the bar was surprisingly tight and he would give anything right now to be in that relatively warm apartment, getting high with the closest thing he had to friends.



But he didn't know he had been whimpering. Marwood turned round and stared at him, nothing to suggest that he even knew who he was looking at.



'I have no use for broken toys.'



It took him a few seconds to realise what was happening. Marwood’s boot was on his neck, slowly crushing the bones and cutting off the air. His own struggling was making it worse, he couldn’t fucking breathe. But at least it was quick, the bones were snapped and his heart slowed down until it stopped completely.



Friend, lover, Master. None of them mean a thing.