serial

Taden and I – Part 3

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that may eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Historical Fantasy
Tags: general abuse, sex acts, age gap, bisexual, master/servant, angst, archaic terminology/style

It had been over a week since my return and still I had not called Taden to my side. I had seen little of the man, busy as I was finding ways to shirk my newfound duties, and that suited me just fine.

You’re still a child. His words were like beetles under my skin. The brass of it.

“Milord?”

I broke from my reverie and looked down at the young court musician kneeling before me in the empty minstrel’s gallery. “Yes? What is it?” I snapped.

“Do my methods not… please you, milord?”

I realized that my manhood had entirely lost its spine in my distraction and now drooped like a lifeless brown serpent in the harpist’s hand. To hide my embarrassment, I curled my lip and cuffed the young man on the ear.

“Your methods are boring me,” I told him as he ducked his head, his cheeks pink with chagrin. He looked like he was going to cry at any moment, and I felt bad for mistreating him so; I’m not normally prone to violence and the fact that I’d employed it to cover my own failings shamed me. “Use your mouth instead,” I suggested gently.

“Yes, milord,” he replied and eagerly took me into his warm, wet mouth. Almost instantly, I was revived, and I sighed, kindly stroking back his bright blond curls.

“Much better.”

The harpist mumbled something that sounded like, “thank you, milord,” around the growing burden in his mouth, and I leaned an elbow against the balustrade overlooking the Great Hall.

Despite the young man’s somewhat clumsy work—a flute player would have been more suitable—I felt myself swiftly rising towards the pinnacle.

“You will swallow,” I told him, my breathing uneven. He nodded, eyes beginning to brim in his efforts to accommodate me.

At that moment I heard voices below and looked down to see Taden briskly enter the Great Hall with a messenger at his side. The two of them stopped at the empty dais and from Taden’s terse gestures, I gathered he was annoyed at my absence, bidding the messenger to remain while he hunted for his errant lord.

The harpist was clearly tiring and growing careless with his teeth which, coupled with my preoccupation, had delayed the moment such that it timed nearly perfectly with Taden’s sudden about-face. Eyes on Taden’s stormy visage, I gasped, holding onto the young musician’s head as I prepared to empty myself into his mouth; the sound either carried or Taden became aware of my gaze because he chose then to raise his eyes to the gallery.

I let out a rasping cry as I peaked, helplessly staring into Taden’s shocked eyes as my seed burst the dam, choking the unfortunate harpist servicing me. It was over in seconds, Taden still as a statue for the length of my performance, and when I was done… I fled.

+++

I was sitting in my chambers, mere minutes later, when the knock came. Still winded from my exertions, my voice failed me on the first attempt to call out, so I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Come.”

Pen held in one hand, I made as if to pore over the document open on my écritoire, but my mind was not yet done revisiting those final, quivering moments, the intensity of which I’d never felt the like... though I could not credit the harpist’s meagre skills. I thought of Taden’s burning gaze and felt my cheeks warm.

The subject of my thoughts came to a stop in the middle of my room, his eyes on the toes of his boots.

“A messenger has arrived with news from the Autumn Lands, my lord,” Taden said as if he hadn’t just witnessed me making thorough use of the young court musician.

“And what is the message?” I asked, needlessly darkening the dots above a letter on the parchment. Ink dripped from my hastily dipped pen, obscuring something that I hoped was unimportant.

“I do not know, my lord. The message is for your ears.”

Annoyed, I looked over at Taden and saw that he had lifted his eyes to me. I read disapproval in his expression and that rankled me further. “Can’t you see I’m otherwise occupied?” I said, my tone high and peevish.

“Your father was customarily in the Great Hall at this time of day,” Taden said, lowering his eyes. His jaw muscles rippled; he was restraining himself.

“I am not my father,” I replied curtly, setting my pen down and marring more of the trade document.

“No, you are most definitely not your father.”

The chair fell back as I shoved myself to my feet, face hot with equal parts anger and humiliation over the obvious censure in his reply. I faced Taden, fists at my side.

“You speak to your lord this way?” I asked, measuring out each word so that it carried the full weight of my contempt. “I ought to have you whipped for your insolence.”

To this, Taden raised his head and fixed me with his fathomless black eyes. I steeled myself for anger… but all I saw was disappointment in his steady gaze. I stood pat, trying not to wither under his scrutiny, but I had to turn away, lest he see the results of his displeasure; I was on the verge of tears.

After a moment, Taden spoke again. “You could be like him, easily, if you made the least effort,” he said, his voice softly intimate. “Wulfie, you’re better than this.”

By “this” I assumed he meant both my truancy and penchant for indiscreet acts of lust.

I could have relented, just then. I could have drummed up enough humility to acknowledge my defects, but his condescension just fed the demon on my shoulder.

"Tell the messenger I shall be there presently to receive this... mysterious message."

"Yes, my lord."

“And then you will order the hangman to administer ten lashes for your impertinence,” I said, making my words cold as I faced the window, seeing nothing beyond. “It will take place in the courtyard at a quarter hour before the even’bell.” At that time, there would be plenty to see him take his punishment. Ten lashes would do little to harm the man; my desire was for the humiliation to sting harder than the whip.

“Yes, my lord,” Taden replied, all vitality stripped from his voice. “As you wish.”

It was only when he had left to order his own flogging that I dared turn back to the room. My eyes burned and my stomach felt like it held hot vinegar.

Who is he to say I am less than my father?

I knew the answer, of course: a man who gave the best years of his life to serving at my father’s side. My own mother couldn’t hope to have known my father better than Taden.

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Am I such a disappointment? Unfortunately, I knew the answer to this one as well.

The Wanderer – Part Eleven

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

In the center of the room, a man is hanging upside-down, suspended from his ankles from a metal frame, his legs held apart. A woman in high heels is helping another man feed a big chain into the first guy’s ass. I wince, watching the thick greased links slip into his body one at a time. The thing’s gotta weigh twenty pounds at least. I can’t imagine what that does to your intestines. The man’s face is covered in a black mask and his body is shiny from sweat. No way to tell if he’s enjoying this or not. The last foot of chain disappears into him, his belly visibly distending, and I think I hear a moan. His thighs start twitching, from pain or pleasure or both, and I shake my head, cracking open another bottle of beer. The shit people get off on, I swear.

I take another look at the woman in heels. She’s young and pretty with big antigravity tits, but her most interesting trait is the long tail, like a cat’s, grafted to her backside. It sways as she walks, the end swishing from side to side as she smiles and gestures to the chain-filled-man like he’s some sort of prize we’ve all won. There's a metallic glint near the tip of her tail where the fake fur has worn away from brushing against the ground.

The performers get a smattering of applause as she bows, and I snort, shaking my head again. At that moment, the woman makes eye contact—I sigh, thinking about her shabby tail, so give her an apologetic smile and dutifully press my thumb to the closest of the small screens mounted on the bar, transferring her a few credits. After all, I’m loaded now, aren’t I? Might as well spend it while I got it… it’s not like we have three mouths to feed anymore.

Fucking hell. I down the bottle of beer and push the cracked button for another. A second later, a hole opens up in the bar and another aluminum bottle emerges. I grimace as I twist off the cap. Drinking beer from the bottle is always going to feel a little perverse after seeing what Apple gets up to. Oh goddamnit. How do I keep my idiot brain from revisiting him every chance it gets?

The trio on the stage are cleaning up. I missed the part where they pulled the chain out of the fella, but I can’t help but notice there’s a little pink in the spatter of lube on the shiny chrome platform. Maybe it’s better I didn’t see.

The bar has a few so-called “relief stations” to keep the patrons from getting overexcited from the non-stop porn show—in a place like this, a fist fight could easily turn into a bloody massacre—and I’m sorely tempted to use one. I’m tense and irritable and I think the beer’s actually making it worse. Maybe a little “relief” is just what the doctor ordered—since I’m not working anymore, it’s been days since I’ve had any.

The closest relief station to me is a naked young woman strapped facedown to a padded bench, ass hanging off the end, free for the taking. After a few seconds of my dick hemming and hawing about using the girl, I decide against it... she’s fast asleep.

I’m still staring when a tall skinny guy in lemon-yellow coveralls walks right up to her, squirts a bit of lube into his palm from the convenient dispenser, and sticks his dick in her ass like he hasn’t a care in the world. I can’t help but watch for a bit, surprised that she doesn’t wake up as he really starts ploughing away at her, then it occurs to me that they probably pay her more to take it unconscious.

Lip curled, I turn away, my finger tapping the worn whiskey button twice. Fuck beer. It’s too slow for what I need right now.

The next act is already up on stage by the time I’ve tossed back the first glass, the whiskey cheap and stinging in my throat, and I sit back in my seat to watch, only mildly interested in the proceedings.

“There you are.”

I turn to Pytre, frowning. “What are you doing here?” The words come out a touch slurred and I realize I might actually be a little drunk already.

“Looking for you.” He rubs the bright copper fuzz on his head, his attention turning to the stage. A crease appears between his brows.

“Hey, you uh, shouldn’t be in a place like this,” I say, but fuck me if I'm not happy to see him.

“What are they… doing?” he asks in a strangled voice, his eyes wide.

I turn back to the stage. “Well… right now she’s… uh”—there’s a clear bag hanging on a hook over the performers, filled with a milky liquid—“getting an enema. Then, I’m guessing those two guys are going to stick everything on that table up her ass.”

“Who in the loving Rime would enjoy this?” Pytre says, looking away from the display, his cheeks visibly flushed even in the dark of the bar.

I laugh. “Klismaphiles and sadomasochists? I don’t know.”

“Are you enjoying this?”

When I first met the ex-Rimer, I’d tried to shock him over and over to no avail, but now that I see him so obviously flustered, I sort of feel bad for laughing. I take a sip of whiskey, and shrug before answering.

“Honestly, I can take it or leave it.” I think back to the necro blood fuckers I saw, months ago it feels like—now, that bar makes this one look like church. “But no. Not really. Just came for a drink.”

Pytre just stares at me for a few moments before saying, “Don’t worry, Asher. He’ll come.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“He’ll come,” he repeats. “I know it.”

“Why? Have you been praying?”

Pytre’s expression hardens. “I don’t pray anymore.”

“Right. Sorry,” I mumble, breaking away from the bitterness in his eyes to stare into my empty glass. I think faith is bullshit, but I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “I hope you’re right.”

The woman on stage lets out a squeal and I look up to see Pytre watching the show, his mouth slack. Is that me, or do I see a hint of… interest in his expression? I grin. Maybe there’s hope for us yet. Not that fucking him is really a priority anymore. I think—and I might be wrong—but, I think I just want him around.

Fucking him would be nice too…

I frown, adjusting my semi with my free hand. My libido’s working overtime, what with my newfound freedom from whoring and no Apple around to help me out with my needs—dammit. I close my eyes, holding my dick through my pants, my brain playing a crisp projection of Apple riding my cock that last night. If he does come back… was that just a goodbye-fuck? A one-time offer? I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose, turning away from Pytre and the stage.

There are two young attendants at the relief station now, untying the sleeping woman. One of the boys presses a device to her shoulder and her lids slowly lift. She yawns, rubbing her face sleepily as she sits up and stretches languidly. The taller boy drapes a pale-blue silken robe over her shoulders and she ties it at the waist with a loose bow. Smiling at the boy, she says a few words, some friendly banter, and he laughs. The other boy places a wine glass in her hand and she pats his cheek, a loving little gesture that is so completely at odds with the surroundings that it hits me with a weird pang. I clear my throat, blinking fast because my vision is swimming. I haven’t slept well in days and it’s starting to affect me.

As the young woman walks away, a tall boy with curly blond hair is led to the padded bench by more attendants and, because my eyes are still blurry, for one or two long seconds I think it’s Apple. But no. This boy’s not half as pretty as my Apple.

My Apple. Shit.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I growl and grab Pytre by the collar of his jacket. The ex-Rimer lets out a surprised squawk as I start dragging him out of the bar—he grabs my wrist with both hands as he skips clumsily sideways to keep up with me.

“Hey, let go,” he says, tripping over his feet, but I just pull him through the doorway and then shove him into the narrow alley next to the bar.

I’ve got him up against the yellow bricks in a heartbeat, my mouth crushed against his so hard that his teeth press painfully into my lips, but when I try to thrust my tongue into his mouth, he surprises me with a solid knee to the groin.

I fall like a stone, my hands cupping my screaming testicles, and I feel like the beer and whiskey might make a comeback… but the nausea passes after a few shaky breaths and I lay there, blinking up at Pytre.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“I get it. You’re angry. You’re hurt—”

“My balls hurt, yeah.” I wince, but the pain is good. It’s cleared my head, for one… stamped out the ugly thing that had risen up in me just now, the thing that only knows how to break and destroy. The thing that sabotages anything good in my life because it knows I don't deserve it.

“That’s not what I meant,” Pytre says, reaching out a hand. I let him help me up and, ashamed, I watch him try to straighten the collar of his jacket.

“Sorry,” I say again.

Pytre stares at me in silence for a moment, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. His are the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen and right now they’re full of judgment and… something else. He takes an audible breath and steps towards me. My back hits the wall and I grunt in surprise as he reaches up to touch my face. Confused, I let him pull my head down towards his.

“What are you—”

Pytre shakes his head, shushing me before touching his lips to mine. It’s a gentle kiss, nothing at all like the crap I’d just attempted, but so much more. I’m afraid to move lest the kiss ends, and it feels like my heart wants to burst out of my ribcage. I let out a groan, my hands circling Pytre’s waist on their own—it’s odd, his body is so familiar to me even though we’ve barely touched before. It takes me a sec to realize that the noise I hear is coming from me, a pathetic sounding whimper—I swear to god, if this turns out to be another goodbye, I won’t survive.

Drawing back, Pytre looks up at me, his eyes wide and cheeks mottled pink. “Let’s go back to the room.”

“Are you sure?” I don’t think my feet are touching the ground anymore.

Brow furrowed, Pytre cocks his head at me—maybe I’ve misunderstood his intention—then his eyes get real big again. “Oh.” Pytre’s whole face goes dark red. “Oh, I didn’t mean we’d… uh, I just meant… we should get back. It’s late.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s what I meant too. Let’s go back to the room,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse. “That’s a good idea.”

Pytre turns and leads the way out of the alleyway, and I follow along silently like a dog on a leash. What the hell just happened?

We climb the mesh-metal steps to our floor, and as he’s keying in the code to our room, I cough into my fist, side-eyeing Pytre. I want to ask… but what the hell do I say?

Obviously sensing my confusion, Pytre lets out a little sigh before he pushes the door open. It’s dark in the room and the air is stale and hot. “I don’t know what I want, all right?” He looks over at me. “But it’s not you forcing yourself on me.”

“Ok,” I reply, chastened. “I got it."

There’s a rustle from somewhere in the room and I’m immediately on the defensive, pushing Pytre behind me to keep him safe. I hear a snuffling noise and for one weird second, I think an animal’s broken into our room, but then the lights come on overhead. It’s Apple.

I’m on my knees in front of him, hands clutching his shoulders so I can hold him still while I stare in shock at the ruin of his face.

Pytre gasps as he falls to his knees beside me. “Rime help me.”

Both of Apple’s eyes are swollen shut, blood leaking from the corner of his left one, and there’s an egg-sized lump over that temple. His nose is broken, that much is obvious, and he’s stuffed some tissues into his nostrils to staunch the bleeding. The hardest to look at is Apple’s mouth. His bottom lip is swollen and purple, and the right side of his mouth has been ripped open, creating a ghastly, jagged grin.

Apple shudders, reaching for me blind, and lets out a wail that tears at my heart. Some of his fingers are clearly broken but that doesn’t stop him from clutching at me in desperation. I wrap him in my arms, trying to be careful, but the fury in my guts makes it hard not to crush him against me. After only a few moments, I relinquish my hold on him, pushing him roughly into Pytre embrace before getting to my feet.

“Where are you going?” Pytre says, stroking Apple’s back. He doesn’t even really know Apple but tears run freely down his cheeks for the wounded boy. Pytre’s a good man.

“I think you know.” I clench my jaw, wishing I hadn’t had that second whiskey. “If I don’t come back, you take Apple and you leave. Understand?”

Hazel eyes wide, Pytre hesitates for a moment. Then he nods.

Without another word, I leave them—I’m going to need a gun if I’m going to kill that fucker Turk.

The Wanderer – Part Nine

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

“So, who is he?”

Finally. I look over at Pytre. He’s lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling like I’ve been doing for the past hour. “Remember the Gulchtown boy-whore?” I ask.

Slowly, Pytre turns to face me, his hazel eyes wide. “How is he alive?”

I figure he means the withdrawal and rapid aging. I think about all the cock-sucking and decide to keep my mouth shut. “I don’t know.”

“He should be dead.”

“Yeah.”

A few seconds click by and I try not to squirm under Pytre’s shrewd gaze.

“What is he to you?”

Well, technically Apple’s my property, seeing as how I bought him and all, but I’m not sure that’s what Pytre wants to hear. “We travel together,” I say gruffly. “And what about you? How are you still alive?” I think about the cannibals and add, “because of the drug, I mean. Isn’t it the same as Apple’s?”

“His name is Apple?” Pytre’s somber expression finally cracks for the first time in days and he lets out a little laugh.

I smile at him. “Yeah. Stupid name.”

“Poor kid.” Pytre shakes his head with another soft chuckle. He shrugs. “I’m not on any drugs.”

I frown, confused. “You’re... not?”

“No.”

“You said you were.”

“I did not. As I recall, I stated that the Disciples of Rime and the whores of Gulchtown take something similar. I never said I did.”

I wipe my hand over my mouth, staring at him. I’d been assuming all along that he could possibly be as old as thirty… But then Ghest had been forty and looked like a wizened, crusty old man-child. Pytre is still a fresh-faced teen. I feel uncomfortable and look away.

“Sorry, I just figured...”

“I’m nineteen.”

Alright so he is older than he looks, but not by much. “Ok.”

“At least I think I am. I came wandering into the compound when I was just barely walking age, they said,” Pytre murmurs. I look over again and see he’s got his eyes closed. “A one-year-old, alone in the wastelands. They searched for a week for my parents and found no trace. I was a miracle... given to them by Rime himself, they said. Maybe Rime reborn.” He laughed. “What a crock of shit.”

My frown deepens. I’m no believer, and it is a crock of shit, but it bothers me hearing Pytre talk this way.

“They raised you.” Would account for what I had perceived was a long life of worship. Hard not to absorb some of that serenity when you’re fed it from age one. I wish Pytre could find a little of that serenity now. I have no idea what to say to take the hurt away.

“They did, yes.”

Again, we lapse into uncomfortable silence. We’re saved by the door banging open and Apple trudging in, his jaws parted in a cavernous yawn. He sees me lying on the second cot and sighs dramatically. “No, no, don’t get up. Really. It’s not like I’m the only one working these days.” He leans over and yanks the pillow out from under my head. He throws it down, kicking dirty clothes out of the way, and stretches out on his back on the hard floor. He’s wearing a bright-green sleeveless jumpsuit, open to just above his groin. A patch of crinkly blond hair is visible above the zipper. Sighing, he folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. “Actually, I’ve been bent over backwards for the better part of an hour. This feels nice.”

“Turk again?”

His eyes snap open and he shoots me a look that’s either defensive or nervous. “Yeah, why?”

“Aren’t worried your ass is going to fall out?”

“My ass is just fine.” He frowns and looks away.

I’ve been assuming the way he’s been acting the past few days is because of Pytre, but maybe it’s something else. I look over at Pytre and he’s gone back to staring at the ceiling.

“Did you pay the water bill?” I ask Apple. We’re down to one jug of potable water.

“No.” Apple’s forehead wrinkles up and he lifts himself up on his elbows, staring hard at me. “Turnbull said to say he knows who you are, and we can get our water elsewhere. But he didn’t say it so nice as that.”

“Fuck.” I rub my face.

“What the hell does he mean?”

“It’s nothing,” I say, shaking my head. Maybe Pytre’ll be well enough to secure a new source of water tomorrow. He’s got an honest face and I have to stop showing mine if we want to stay alive. “Never mind.”

“I wanna know.”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” I growl.

“Asher hasn’t told you who he is?” Pytre asks.

“Who’s Asher?” Apple asks, turning to the Rimer.

The look on Pytre’s face is almost comically confused. “He is,” he says, gesturing to me.

Apple’s mismatched eyes find me again. I can’t help but laugh. It never occurred to me to tell him my name.

“Cael Asher,” I say.

Apple studies me for a few seconds and turns back to Pytre. “Why’d he tell you his name?” His tone is peevish.

“He didn’t have to. He’s well known.” Pytre smiles at me. “He’s the man who saved the human race.”

I scoff and turn over in the cot, facing away. I have half a mind to leave, but if Pytre’s going to give Apple a history lesson, I should stay here and make sure he gets the facts straight.

“Then, why do they spit in his food?” Apple asks.

“Because he couldn’t save all of them,” Pytre says quietly. “What do you know of the last days of Earth?”

“Only a little bit. My people weren’t from Earth.”

“Of course, your people were from Earth. You’re human, stupid…” I mumble, eyes closed.

“Bertchel says I weren’t born there and neither was the whore that whelped me,” Apple replies, sounding annoyed, but a few seconds later he adds, “So, what happened to Earth?”

“About forty years ago, something called a ‘catastrophic climate event’ happened on Earth. No one knows exactly what triggered it, but there was no stopping it. The world was ending,” Pytre tells him. “No one could decide what to do and no one could agree when Doomsday was. The world was in chaos.”

My eyes are shut tight now and I’m trying to keep the memories from getting their hooks into me. Half the planet was in flames by the time the World Government collapsed. Sometimes, when I’m overtired, the smell of a campfire makes my hands shake and my bladder feel real weak. I see burning bodies in my dreams.

“Corporal Asher and a dozen soldiers seized control of a buildyard where there were finished colony ships just sitting there empty. He got them fueled up and sent out a message: We are leaving the world.”

I swallow and cross my arms, gritting my teeth. I’d been only a year older than Pytre when I stood before that swelling crowd of hopefuls. Somehow in all the mayhem I’d found clarity and purpose. We couldn’t wait for a failed government to save us. We had to save ourselves.

“People started arriving. Little by little at first, then by the busload,” I say quietly, taking over the story. I don’t bother turning to face them. I don't want them to see the pain I know is plastered all over my face. “There were tents as far as the eye could see… too many people for twenty-nine ships. We barred the gates to the buildyard, but they kept coming, right over the razor wire.” I frown, thinking about the disorder and confusion of those last days. “People were killing each other over food and space. A platoon arrived, Marines… they tried to retake the ships, but the people just tore them limb from limb. Half the Leaders of the World Government were telling us to wait, the other half wanted me in front of a firing squad. Some of the colonies were vowing to keep us from ever reaching their orbits.

“Then... the earthquakes got worse. Six ships were lost when the ground collapsed beneath them... lost about a thousand people too, maybe more. We couldn't wait any longer… so we had a lottery.” I shake my head slowly. That had wasted so much goddamn time. “I took forty thousand with me. I left the rest to burn.”

The silence is dense in our small hostel room, then I hear the other cot creak and feel Pytre’s hand land softly on my shoulder.

“The human race owes you a debt.”

“What if I left too soon? What if I could have taken more?”

“What do you mean?” asks Apple. “Sounds like you got out of there, nicky-time-like.”

“There’s no way to tell if the world did end, or if I pulled the trigger too soon.” I open my eyes and turn onto my back. I never burden anyone with the shit in my head—why the fuck am I doing it now? “Too many ships passing through the wormhole collapsed it. There’s no way back. What if I was wrong? What if Earth was around for another month? Another half-year? We could have built more ships. Could have saved more.” The loadmaster had said the same thing, over and over, until he let himself out the airlock one night.

Pytre’s mouth twitches to the side and he shakes his head, his expression sympathetic. “Like you said, there’s no way to know. You know you did the right thing… besides, could the colonies have supported more than what you brought with you?”

I curl my lip at him. “That’s bullcrap and you know it.”

“Sorry… I don’t know what to say and I’m afraid if I quote Rime you’re going to punch me.”

I blink. I’d as soon cut off my balls than lay a hand on Pytre, but Apple decides then to put in his two credits.

“The past is dead… why’re you still fucking a corpse?”

Eyebrows raised, I look over at Apple. He’s sitting cross-legged next to Pytre on the other cot, his chin on his fists and his blond curls shadowing his eyes. Blocking out the past is probably the only thing that gets him up in the mornings—I can’t imagine his life has been anything short of a nightmare.

“You saved the humans. Yippee…” he says in a flat voice, then gives me a little grin. “Did you get a shiny medal?”

I shake my head, but Pytre does the honours for me. “When they arrived, the colonial council stripped him of his rank, citizenship, and sentenced him to two hundred years hard labour in the asteroid mines.”

Apple whistles low. “Ouch. But… I thought you saved the human race?”

“In light of that feat, they reduced the sentence. I did thirty years.” Thirty years digging tungsten out of a crater in the dark, alone except for the stars and the hiss of oxygen in my ears. Feels like a dream now.

“That’s not fair,” Apple says, his expression subdued.

“It’s not,” I agree. “They should have put a bullet between my eyes.”

Pytre and Apple share a glance and I sigh, sitting up. I scratch the back of my head and shrug. “Now you know why they spit in my food.” I roll my shoulders, feeling stiff. “Best you two get some shuteye. I’ll go deal with the water situation.”

+++

An hour later, I’m back at the hostel having secured enough water rations for a week. I don’t like dealing with off-market water merchants—who knows if we'll get sick drinking the crap they sell—but it’s not like we have a lot of choice at this point.

I key in the code and push open the door to see that both Pytre and Apple are fast asleep on their respective cots, leaving me the floor. With a sigh, I pull off my dusty jacket then unlace my boots, stretching out on the cold grey laminate. I’m exhausted, but not tired, so I lie there trying to clear my thoughts.

After a while, I feel like I’m being watched—I look over and see that Apple is awake. He stares at me for a few seconds, his face devoid of expression, then quietly gets out of bed. I frown as he undoes the rest of the zipper on the green jumpsuit and lets it fall to the floor. Naked, he stands over me and I’m surprised to see that his dick is hard.

I glance over at Pytre as Apple straddles my thighs. The Rimer is dead asleep but Apple reaches over my head and taps the light, dimming it further.

“What are you doing?” I mouth. Of their own accord, my hands find Apple’s pert backside. He sighs softly and arches back as I squeeze his warm flesh. He feels good. Just as I’m about to open my mouth to ask Apple again what he’s up to, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. For a moment I don’t do anything, but he moves his mouth insistently, his hands around the back of my neck, and I can’t help but let him in. I close my eyes, tentatively moving my own tongue against his as he settles his weight on me. I don’t remember the last time I kissed like this. I let him breathe for me for a bit and my tongue gets bolder. Apple tastes like lemon for some reason. It's sort of nice.

My dick is waking up, but it’s as confused as I am. This isn’t fucking… this feels like that other thing that people do. That word that I won’t use because I have no business saying it.

Apple pulls back to look down at me, his eyes sparkling in the dark. He’s breathing as hard as I am. I move my hands, stroking them up his back, his skin so smooth against my hands. I like the feel of his nakedness on me. Experimentally, I scratch his back lightly and I’m rewarded with a hushed groan—I remember I’ve done this to someone before, long ago. My hands take over, rusty muscle memory at best, and slide down his back, cup his buttocks, squeeze, then rake his thighs gently with my nails again. He sits up straighter, rocking his pelvis, so I shift my hands to his waist, thumbs stroking his taut belly, then slide my palms up his chest. His nipples are hard between my fingers and when I give them a good pinch, he gasps quietly. I want to kiss him again, take my time with it, but his hands are at my belt and in a matter of seconds, he’s freed my cock.

Panting, I’m running my hands up and down his thighs—distracted, involuntary movements because my entire focus is on Apple spitting on his fingers and reaching back, his eyes half lidded. He’s up on his knees, one hand around the base of my cock to guide it, and pauses with a smile… then he sinks down, his ass swallowing my dick down to the balls in one smooth motion. Fucking hell, that’s sweet. I close my eyes, stifling a moan, and breathe out slowly, savouring the feeling of my cock buried deep. When I look up, he’s staring down at me, his expression somber, unreadable. He slips his hands beneath the hem of my shirt and strokes them up my belly, his fingers raking through the thick, greying hair there and up onto my pecs… then he starts to move. My hands find his waist again and I can feel the rhythmic rolling of his hips and pelvis as he rises and falls, fucking me at an unhurried pace.

My heart is beating so fast I’m breathless—he rises up to pause with just the tip of my dick threatening to slip out, and I groan, pulling him down so I can bury myself back to the hilt inside his slick hole. My chest starts to hurt, and for a second I’m worried that I’m having a heart attack.

Hey, it’s not a bad way to go, blowing my last load into a good-looking kid like Apple—but the pain passes and I chalk it up to how hard I’m tensing… the pace is so slow it’s a tease, and I need more. I grab the back of his neck and pull him down, eagerly kissing him again as he opens his lips to meet mine, and I take over the pace, thrusting up into him hard until he’s gasping the air right out of my lungs and the slap of skin-on-skin is loud enough that I worry it will wake Pytre.

At the last second, I turn my head, breaking away from Apple’s hungry mouth, and clench my teeth as I empty my balls inside him, biting back a deep groan of pleasure. Shit, when was the last time I felt this good? Maybe never. The aftershocks jerk my legs out straight and I’m twitching and shuddering beneath Apple, trying to catch my breath as he smiles down at me.

His dick is still hard, but he hasn’t cum yet. Can’t have that.

I sit up, arms looping through his to coax him backwards onto the floor and I lay beside him, kissing him for a bit. My hand strokes his shaft and up over the head to catch the dribble of precum, using it to swipe my thumb back and forth over his banjo string, before returning to a firm grip to start all over again. I know I’m pretty good at this.

“You’re driving me crazy, old man,” I hear him whisper. Grinning, I keep playing with his dick a while, teasing him until he’s trembling and covered in a sheen of sweat. I kiss him again, breathing in those raspy breaths for a moment, then move down his body, kissing and nibbling—first his neck, then a nipple between my teeth and I bite harder. Apple makes a sharp noise and I can’t tell if he’s objecting or enjoying it, but I don’t linger to find out. My mouth finds the head of his dick and I lap up the salty drop at its tip before rubbing my lips over the smooth skin.

Apple’s hips twist and his pelvis jerks up, his desire making him greedy, so I slide my finger into his ass at the same time as I suck down his cock—he lets out a quiet whimper, bucking his hips again as my finger slips further into his cum-slick hole to tickle his prostate. I feel the head of his cock swell in my mouth and he’s shaking so hard it’s almost like he’s vibrating, so I push a second finger inside him and press on his gland, my tongue and lips working him faster now.

It doesn't take long. Apple gasps and my mouth fills with his seed, salty and bitter, and I swallow it down as his ass clenches down over my knuckles. Drawing back when his body goes limp, I swallow again and pull my fingers out of him. His eyes are closed and he’s smiling from ear to ear. After a minute or so, he cracks an eyelid, finding me in the dim light. His smile slips.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

There’s something funny about the way he says it, like he’s thanking me for more than taking care of his dick. “Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it,” Apple says. Then he sits up and kisses me again, but this time it’s a quiet kiss, and for some reason that worries me.

“Ok,” I say awkwardly when he pulls away.

His forehead wrinkles up as he stares at me with those striking eyes, then his expression shifts into its usual combination of sass and good humour. “But, you know, a good blow-job doesn’t mean you get the bed,” Apple says with a wink. He climbs on to the cot, still naked and collapses on his stomach.

“Right.” I sigh and stretch out again on the floor, tucking my dick back into my pants. Pytre is still fast asleep, his breathing deep and measured, and I’m glad he missed… whatever that was.

Bemused, I close my eyes—I can’t tell whether I’d like a repeat or if I’d like to forget it ever happened.

The Wanderer – Part Two

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

The only thing in front of me is a huge field of red and it takes five groggy seconds to realize I’m looking at the insides of my eyelids. It hurts like hell to scrape away the caked dust, and when I finally manage to pry my eyes open, the lids part like I’m tearing open a wound. I can’t hold back, but my throat’s so parched my cry sounds like a death rattle.

Blinking, I try to figure out what I’m seeing beyond my bloodied fingertips, but it doesn’t make a lick of sense. My vision’s murky—like I’m peering through a jar of cloudy piss—but it looks like there’s a whole lot of distance between me and the ground… which doesn’t seem likely since I can feel the dirt under my cheek.

I squint and freeze when I finally recognize what I’m staring at: the cliff wall opposite. I’m lying on the very edge of a yawning chasm, my face an inch from the void. Lifting my head slowly, I can barely make out the blurry, jagged rocks below.

I’d been plodding along for hours, trying to out-walk the dust storm, blind in the stinging yellow cloud, and I must have collapsed. I’m damn lucky I didn’t go over the cliff.

Or am I? It could have meant an end to my purgatory.

Groaning, I turn with some difficulty onto my back. I can never decide whether I’m still alive because I’m too much of a coward to end it, or because I don’t think I deserve such an easy escape.

I’ve got my eyes closed again. I can’t help it. I’m fucking exhausted and my eyeballs feel sticky. Blinking is becoming impossible. Maybe it’s the end after all.

+++

I’m rocking slowly. Voices… overlapping.

“Careful with his head—”

“Watch it—”

“Take it slow, Jessup. Watch your step—”

“Doesn’t he look like—”

“No, it can’t be—”

“I think it is, I think it’s the—”

I struggle to sit up, but I can’t open my eyes. They’re glued shut again. A cool hand touches my arm.

“It’s all right, friend. Peace.” The voice is male. Young. Another hand presses my shoulder. I hear a whimper and recognize it as my own. My skin feels like it’s been tenderized. I’m too tired to do anything except lay back down again and let them carry me away.

+++

The sun wakes me up and for a few moments I have no idea where I am. Then, I remember the voices and I frown. Peace. I’m not sure I know what that means anymore.

I’m in some sort of small round tent. The walls are brown canvas and the ground is bare beneath an orange and yellow braided rug, the same kind they sell to tourists on every shitty planet I’ve been to.

I’m lying on a rickety, narrow cot, but it’s the softest thing I’ve slept on in weeks. My eyes still sting, the lids raw and gummy, and my mouth is as dry as a desert, but it looks like I’m going to live.

The tent flap opens, and I’m blinded by the light—the figure beyond is nothing but a dark blob until it enters and the canvas falls close behind it. When my vision clears, and I see who my visitor is, I sigh and rub my sore, sandblasted face, squeezing my eyes shut despite the pain. Just my luck… seems I’ve been rescued by a damned cult—the man’s a Disciple of Rime. But, truthfully, as far as cults go on Chornoboh-7, Rimers are probably the best I could have hoped for. For one, I know they didn’t drag my sorry corpse out of the wastelands just so they could eat me—cannibals, they are not.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I crack my lids open again and peer at him. “Water,” I rasp.

“Of course,” he says and calls over his shoulder to someone standing outside. He looks no more than sixteen, but it’s impossible to tell how old Rimers are. The drugs they take to give them visions make them appear younger. They tend to be on the short side and their skin looks youthful, cheeks rosy and faces unlined. Though I figure the cultist seated in the tent is probably not as young as he looks, he can't be very old either. Rimers don’t live past thirty—the drugs that show them God and keep them young also kill them over time.

The Rimer takes the small copper cup he’s given and slides his hand under my head to help me drink. I immediately start to cough—ironically, the water is too wet for my mouth and throat. It takes me three tries to swallow one mouthful and then I’m only given the little that’s left in the cup.

“More,” I demand, but the man shakes his head and settles me back on the cot.

“You’ll get more later. I promise,” he says with a serene smile. “It’s best not to rush it. You were out there a long time.”

Eyes closed, I sigh my frustration. I know he’s right—I’ll be sick if I drink too much.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” he asks after a moment. “You’re—

I stop him with a growl. “I’m no one.”

“But—”

“I am no one.”

I imagine by his silence that I’ve either shocked or cowed him, but then he lets out a soft chuckle. “All right, friend. As you say. But, you can call me Pytre.”

“Well, Pytre, either come here and suck my dick or leave me the hell alone.”

I’m being crude on purpose—Rimers take their celibacy vows seriously—but it’s not because I have a problem with their religiosity. I don’t care enough to give a shit one way or another. I just said it because I figure it’s a sure-fire way to get him out of the tent. I’m in pain and pain makes me cranky. I’ve also been feeling sorry for myself for so long that good intentions sometimes feel like a personal attack.

I open my eyes, wondering if Pytre has somehow fled without my hearing him, and see he’s just standing there, watching me, his brow wrinkled.

With his head shaved to the skin, his big ear stick out like cup handles, but he has a nice-enough face—regular, inoffensive features with a pair of large, long-lashed hazel eyes that are just pretty enough to bump him past plain. The kind of earnest face I can never say no to, regardless of whether I have to pay for it or not. When he still hasn’t moved, I squeeze my cock through my pants and sneer.

“It’s not going to suck itself.”

I’m talking out of my ass, of course. Even if he was game and I could manage to get it up in my enfeebled state, I should probably hang onto the precious little liquid I have left in my body.

Indifferent to my taunts, Pytre just ducks his chin and says “I’ll be back in a little while with more water. Try to rest,” in a kind voice before leaving me alone.

Unflappable son of a bitch. I turn over carefully on my side to get more comfortable and notice something: I’m curious about Pytre.

I can’t remember the last time I was actually curious about anything.

+++

The next two days I spend sleeping and drinking as much liquid as my body will allow. Pytre visits me twice as often as the others—the way they defer to him makes me believe he’s either in charge or close to it. One thing’s for certain, he’s definitely not the fresh-faced sixteen-year-old his appearance would have you believe.

By day three, I’m allowed a meal I can chew and fuck if it isn’t glorious. It’s only some stew with chunks of protein in it, but I’m in pure heaven. When I’m nearly done, Pytre pokes his head into the tent to see how I’m getting along.

“Hey, tell you what… I’ll suck your cock, if you give me another bowl of this,” I say, my spirits buoyed by the meal.

Surprising me again, Pytre just chuckles and enters, settling himself down cross-legged on the rug to watch me finish my stew.

I’ve had to reassess my impression of him. He’s better looking than I gave him credit for… but maybe I’m so swayed by his generosity that my dick’s giving me rose-tinted glasses.

“Padre, you’ve got a great set of lips on you,” I say, then burp against the back of my hand. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Pytre lets out a laugh. “Not that I recall.”

“Yeah… they’d look great wrapped around my cock.” Shit, I don’t know why I’m talking this way. It’s like it’s become my mission to get a rise out of him.

“Since you’re feeling so ah… lively, you should come outside and take in a little fresh air,” Pytre says with his usual serene smile, but when he turns to push the tent flap open, I notice he’s flushed. Or at least I think so.

Carefully, I get to my feet, feeling a bit wobbly, and ignore the hand he holds out to assist me as I duck through the low opening. Instantly, my eyes begin to water. The sun is stronger and clearer than I’ve ever seen it, though maybe it’s just because I’ve been holed up in a tent for days. Wiping my streaming eyes, I look around in amazement at all the green I’m surrounded by.

“How…” I manage, shaking my head. “But, where are you getting the water?” I’m absolutely stunned. Chornoboh-7 is supposed to be a barren moon, but the field of vegetation must be three, maybe four acres across. I turn and raise a hand to shade my face. It’s green as far as the eye can see in the other direction.

“We sacrifice a virgin to Rime on the first of every month and he grants us rain.”

Startled, I look over at the cultist but he’s just staring out over the field looking completely at peace with himself. After a moment, Pytre glances over at me, and his youthful face cracks into a mischievous smile.

“We have a trade deal with the Argonaus Station for wastewater,” he says.

“You made a joke.”

“I’m known to do that on occasion.” His expression turns serious. “Come, you should lie down. I don’t want you to tire yourself out.”

Instead of a quip about how I’d like to tire myself out, I accept his arm for support.

Maybe it’s the millions of green leaves waving in the wind around us or maybe Pytre’s unrelenting friendliness is getting to me, I don’t know… but something’s changed.

Sessions with Max – #3

by

Novella - 49,000
Genre(s): transgressive, psychopath, dark erotica, QUILTBAG

Fresh out of school, Dr. Crane takes on a new patient that both intrigues and unnerves him. Charming, manipulative, and amoral, Max’s proves to be exactly the sort of mind Crane found himself drawn to in fiction.

When Max begins to weave himself into Crane’s life, Crane finds himself realizing that fiction is safe, and Max is certainly not.

 

Excerpt

 

Disclaimer: Read at your own risk.

1 - The First Session

Monday, June 13th

“I wish you would stop doing that.” The words were spoken in a friendly tone, each syllable enunciated so precisely that they gave the impression of a foreign accent.

Crane frowned at the young man seated across from him in the oddly plushy bright-orange barrel chair. They were over half an hour into their first session, and he was still struggling to establish a rapport with this new patient. “Doing what?”

“Mimicking my posture to make me feel more at ease,” replied Max, and he drummed a few beats with his fingertips against his calf as he looked around in distaste at the small shabby office Crane shared with the other therapists at the psychology clinic.

Crane uncrossed his legs and sat back in the chair, discomfited. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“S’aaall right.” This time it came out slow and drawled, and Crane found himself smiling. “It has the opposite effect on me,” Max explained with a shrug. “I’m intensely cognizant of you doing it.”

Crane chuckled. Cognizant. The crisp pronunciation was back. The way Max’s accent and speech patterns shifted constantly was fascinating.

“Okay, Max,” he said, nodding. “I’ll try my best to stop doing it. It’s my training, you know.”

“I know.” The reply was accompanied by a smile, but there was something slightly unsettling about it.

Crane looked down at his notes, just to take a moment to think. Relief. That’s what he felt. It was as if he’d gotten a pass because he’d given the right answer—like it would have been inexcusable had he been mimicking Max on purpose. Crane flipped over the scant info Max had provided on the clinic intake sheet, still pretending to read. For some reason, as they spoke, his mind kept slipping to the mafia movie he had seen that weekend with his wife, Mary. When he finally glanced up, Max looked amused.

“Sorry, I was just trying to get back to what we were talking about,” Crane said. They had been talking about what Max called his “ghost”, an imaginary friend that had been with him since childhood. “Can you tell me more about Eric?”

“Eddie.” There was a flicker of annoyance in Max’s dark eyes.

“Sorry. Eddie. Can you tell me more about him?” Crane couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the need to apologize so often in a session. Then he wondered if Max even cared for his apologies.

“What do you want to know?” The finger drumming again.

It was one of three nervous tics that came over the young man whenever he was asked something uncomfortable. There was something odd about the tics though. Crane decided then to take note of them to see if they always happen in the same order. After putting two marks on the upper left-hand side of the page, he gestured with his pen. “What is he like? Is he like you?” Crane asked with interest.

“He’s not like me, no. We’re actually rather dissimilar.”

“In what way?”

A furrow appeared between Max’s dark brows as he thought. It was like he was mentally shuffling through his answers to give Crane the one of least importance, and he was reminded of that expression about holding cards close to one’s chest. Under “reason for seeking counselling” on the intake sheet, Max had written “taedium vitae”, which translated to “tired of life”. Crane was about to point out that Max was the one who had come to see him, not the other way around, when Max finally spoke up.

“He’s nicer. A little shy. Says I should be more serious… He’s a bit of a fucking pain in my ass sometimes, to be honest.” The words were followed by the cheerful, almost self-mocking laughter that always surprised Crane by how genuine it sounded.

“Would you call him a friend?”

“Yeah. But it’s more than that.” Max uncrossed his legs and leaned forward with his elbows on knees, stroking down over his mouth and jaw with one hand.

Crane made another mark on the paper, this time in the top-centre of the page. That’s tic number two. “More? Like you have a deeper relationship?”

Max nodded.

“Is there a sexual aspect to this relationship?” This time Max smirked before he nodded, and the answer didn’t surprise Crane. He wanted to ask more about the sex just because he was curious as to what exactly that entailed but decided against it.

The young man clasped his hands loosely so that they hung between his knees as he watched Crane, but he didn’t say anything else. Something about the way Max blinked was odd… like it was too slow or not done often enough.

“What I’m getting at is that”—Crane glanced quickly down at his notes—“Eddie provides you with all the companionship you could ever need.”

“Mm.” Paired with the tiny nod, it was a grunt of acknowledgement. Again, nothing else was said.

Crane started to get annoyed, but noticed then that Max was looking at him with obvious levity. He exhaled in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” Max offered with a chuckle. “You’re not asking for more than yes or no answers. Try to reformulate your questions so I’m forced to say more.”

Crane’s eyebrows rose. There it was again, that mixture of unsettled and relieved that had him sitting tense in his seat, but he smiled and nodded anyway, trying to keep his expression bland and friendly.

“Ah! That’s you giving me a hint, right?” Crane said. It was like every time Max got tired of seeing Crane flounder, he would throw him a bone about how to approach his therapy.

Max’s smile was sly. Then he rubbed the back of his neck as he sat back before pushing the peak of his cap up a bit.

Crane’s pen made a fourth pen tic, top-right corner. “Do you think Eddie gets in the way of making real connections with other people?”

A slight curl in Max’s lip appeared, like he disapproved, and Crane realized that he’d asked yet another yes or no question. He frowned and rephrased it quickly. “I mean, why do you think Eddie affects your relationships with real people?”

The laugh that rang out was so lively and full of mirth that Crane found himself laughing along even though he was struck again with an infuriating juxtaposition of emotions.

You asked the right question! Good boy! Have a liver treat!

“Okay, Doc. You’re assuming that Eddie isn’t a real person. I assure you he is. Realer to me than you are,” said Max, still grinning. However, his expression flashed to serious an eye blink later. “Why do you think he’s affecting my relationships? You said for yourself just a few seconds ago that he provides me with all the companionship I could ever need. Wouldn’t real people, as you called them, affect my relationship with Eddie, and not the other way around?”

Crane opened his mouth, but Max swiped the air with a hand and cut him off before he could voice his concerns.

“No, I know what you’re going to say. Human beings need other human beings. I get it. I do. But really, Doc, I’m happy with the level of socialization I get. If I want more, I just go find more, it’s not a big deal.”

Crane kept himself from frowning. He knew that people, in Max’s world, were sort of like commodities or tools—easily obtainable, useful, but impersonal. Then he did let himself frown. “What if you were to ask Eddie to go away for a while and see how you do without him?”

Max’s handsome face was devoid of expression. He shifted in his chair chair, placed his ankle on the opposite knee, and drummed out a little beat against the denim; Crane made a mark, top-left.

“I wouldn’t.” Fingertips drummed again, and Crane made a sixth tic, again in the left-hand column.

“Just as an experiment.”

“I wouldn’t,” Max repeated and rubbed his jaw; another mark went into Crane’s notebook.

“What if I were to ask you to do it for the good of our sessions? Just to see what happens?” He knew that if Max had had his imaginary friend for as long as he claimed, it would take more than that, but Max was incredibly self-controlled—anything was possible. Mostly, Crane was curious about how Max would answer.

The last tic in Max’s cycle showed itself as he scratched at the back of his neck and then lifted the peak of his battered old army cap high enough to show his squashed brown curls beneath it. Crane made another small dash in his notebook, feeling like he’d accomplished something by discovering the repetitive pattern of Max’s nervous tics.

“Dr. Crane,” said Max, shaking his head slowly when he finally replied. “If you knew what you were asking me to do…” Suddenly, all the nervous movements stopped, and Max went still, staring at Crane with dark eyes. “No. I’m going to tell you what you’re asking me to do. Consider this one a freebie. You’re asking me to”—Max paused, his expression becoming a little pained, even vague for a moment—“send the one thing that’s keeping me out of jail or out of the loony bin on holiday. That is what you’re asking me to do.”

Crane was disturbed by the way Max’s gaze held his, but he couldn’t look away. It was like all of his reactions were being categorized and filed away in Max’s lizard brain. At that moment, he realized that Max would do it and send Eddie away if he asked him again. But if Crane did that, he would be responsible for… responsible for what? He blinked, trying to hide his unease from the young man sitting across from him.

In a flash, Max’s face split into the friendly smile that seemed to be his default expression, and he pulled himself to his feet. There was a pulse of fear in Crane’s gut at the sudden proximity—tiny, but it was there.

“Time’s up!” said Max cheerfully.

Sure enough, with a glance to his watch, Crane saw it was three thirty. He rose out of his chair, towering over his dark-haired patient. He was more flustered and tense than after any of his other consults.

“See you next week,” Crane managed, and Max made a double clicking noise with one side of his mouth, like he was chastising Crane for being unnerved.

It was also the same noise that Crane had heard people use to call their dogs. A seed of anger took root inside him, but he kept a calm smile on his face even though Max gave a little nod, like he could see right through his pretense.

Reaching for the doorknob, Max threw a look over his shoulder. “I’ll do them all in reverse next week, just for fun,” he said with a wink. Then he was gone.

Crane looked down at the page where he’d been keeping track of Max’s tics. He slowly tore it out of his notebook, crumpled it up, and threw it in the garbage. Looking out at the bright sun, he was struck with the urge to cancel his next appointment and bike home, simply to see Mary’s smile.

 

 

2 - Common Ground

Monday, June 20th

Crane smiled as Max sat down across from him. They were supposed to be in the same therapy room as their first session, but he had found Debra, the receptionist, having lunch in it when Max arrived. Crane shifted a little in his seat and chided himself for not simply telling her he had booked the office instead of abdicating and taking the empty one at the back of the clinic—this one was cramped and musty smelling, and the chairs uncomfortable. No wonder it was always free.

Grow a backbone. Five weeks working at the clinic and he had yet to find his stride—he felt like the bumbling newcomer, still wet behind the ears.

Max crossed his legs and leaned back. Steepling his fingers, he returned Crane’s smile.

“Are you going somewhere after this?” asked Crane as he opened his notebook on his lap.

Max’s brown curls were tamed, and he was wearing a black button-down with a tie, black pants, and polished square-toed dress shoes. He looked down at himself and frowned. When he met Crane’s eye again, his expression was one of amusement.

“Nah.”

The tone was friendly, but Crane felt the same strange tension as the previous week. He was being made to feel stupid for asking, even though it was a valid question—the last time he had seen Max, he had been dressed in old jeans and jackboots. Crane gritted his teeth and stared down at the blank page for a moment.

“So… How was your week?” he finally asked, smoothing out his expression as he glanced back up.

Max’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he contemplated the question. “Oh… It was okay. Didn’t get up to much.”

Crane nodded and jotted down the date. “And your level of stress?”

This time Max’s brows pinched above his nose, and Crane wondered if the uncertainty he saw in his face was sincere.

“I… don’t know,” said Max. “That’s the problem. By the time I’m able to recognize that I’m stressed, it’s pretty bad.”

“What are you feeling now?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Max’s face split into a wide grin, and he let out a laugh. Crane found it a little startling the way his expressions changed suddenly.

“Nothing is a simplification of what I’m feeling at this exact moment. Yes, I feel something. No, I don’t know what it is.”

“Can you describe it?”

Max’s expression went pensive. “My heart is beating faster than it normally does. My shoulders hurt, which I’m going to attribute to tension. Sometimes, I feel like I need to take an extra breath.” He sounded a bit terse.

Crane leaned forward and Max averted his eyes. “You’re just telling me what you’re feeling physically. What about mentally? How are you feeling?”

Max grimaced as he looked out the window. One shoulder came up in a small shrug. “Somewhere between amused and annoyed. Like usual.”

“What do you mean ‘like usual’?”

The way Max’s eyes swivelled back to Crane’s gave him the impression that his mood had slipped somewhat in the direction of “annoyed”.

Max sized him up for a moment. “Those are my two basic moods. The only other ones I can identify reliably are anger and arousal… But I do, on occasion, get them mixed up.”

Crane stared into Max’s dark eyes and felt his heart beat faster, but he forced himself to smile. Never show fear. Wasn’t that advice for dealing with aggressive dogs?

After a moment, Max smiled back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to being like this with anyone.”

“Like how?” Crane sat back, then let out a silent sigh of relief as the tension in the room petered out.

Max averted his eyes again. “Honest.”

“That’s good that you’re being honest with me.” He glanced down at his book and realized the page was still blank. He wasn’t sure how to approach this session. Max wasn’t nearly as talkative as last time. Not for the first time, Crane wished he had Max’s previous therapy records. “Have you ever been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder?”

Max chuckled and glanced at Crane. It was a yes or no question, but it obviously amused him enough that he gave Crane more than a one-word answer.

“Why does everyone ask me that?” Max said, rolling his eyes. “No. I do not fall on the spectrum.”

“But you get asked that often?” It was another yes or no, but again, Max was forthcoming.

“Yeah. It’s a real pain in my ass—it’s like everyone and their dog is obsessed with diagnosing folks with Asperger’s. Drives me insane.” Max grinned and smoothed down his tie. Crane noticed then that the geometric patterns on it were the aliens from Space Invaders, and he laughed to himself.

Crane made a note: Feelings = bad topic. Mental acuity = good. “What do you think you have?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m normal.” Max’s laugh rang out and Crane added his own quiet laugh. “No, serious, Doc. They’ve tried to pin me with a number of things: manic-depressive or bipolar even though I am neither manic nor depressive, nor do I have any kind of discernible mood swings; narcissistic, histrionic, borderline, dissociative… etcetera, etcetera.” Max rolled his hand in the air and chuckled again, dismissing the diagnoses. “But you’re smarter than they are, Dr. Crane… Aren’t you?”

Crane smiled at the compliment before he could stop himself. Max was charming, manipulative, focused, self-aware, and incredibly intelligent—exactly the kind of character that Crane normally loved on-screen. However, this wasn’t fiction, and the room suddenly felt even smaller when Max’s expression went neutral and he tilted his head a little. The psychopath’s head tilt.

Half of him knew he should probably drop Max as a patient and refer him to someone with more experience. Crane was barely out of school, and Max was only his fifth patient. He was out of his league. However, the other half was thrilled at the chance to pick Max’s brain. To study him. Hell, maybe he could write a paper on him.

Crane nodded. “None of those things fit,” he agreed, fully aware that he was saying exactly what Max wanted to hear. He tried to formulate his next question in a way that would get Max talking.

“No trauma,” said Max pre-emptively, and then he frowned as he focused on something above Crane’s head.

Crane glanced down at what he had written, and a tiny, cool surge of adrenaline raced through him: History of trauma? “How did you know I was going to ask you about trauma right then?” he asked.

For a moment, it was like Max hadn’t heard him as he continued to stare over Crane’s head. Then he blinked and focused on him.

“That was the next logical question, wasn’t it?” Max said with a smile. “At least, that’s what I would have asked.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. In the dim natural light of the office, his eyes appeared black… completely opaque. Crane couldn’t look away, seized by the ridiculous suspicion that Max could see into his thoughts. “No trauma. Normal upbringing. No one was murdered in front of me, I was not molested by anyone, and I’ve never been in the kind of accident that would cause brain damage.”

When Max’s eyes slid away from Crane’s to stare once more at a spot above his head, Crane looked down at his book and scratched out his question about trauma. He glanced up at his patient and saw Max was scowling at whatever he had been staring at before. Crane looked behind him at the two paintings on the wall.

“Sorry… It’s just that they’re identical,” said Max. “Why in the hell would you have two identical paintings on the same wall? Especially in a clinic where you see people with mental problems? That’s enough to drive me a little nuts. I can’t concentrate.” Max stood up and closed the space between them in two steps.

Crane’s mouth went dry as he stared up, startled, and wondered what the young man’s intentions were. For a split second, he had the strangest feeling that Max would reach out and cup his cheek softly. His face flushed and his skin grew hotter at the obvious merriment in Max’s eyes. Crane swallowed.

“Would you care to swap places with me,” said Max softly. There was something far too intimate about the tone of his voice, as if he were asking Crane something else entirely. Crane lurched to his feet, all too aware of the sweat dampening the underarms of his shirt.

“Yes. Sure. Sorry,” he mumbled, brushing past Max to take his vacated seat. Max’s cologne smelled like wood fire and musk, and it clung to the fabric of the chair. He reopened the notebook on his knees and looked down, though he closed his eyes after a moment. Crane was straight. There was no reason why Max would affect him in such a way, but there it was—Crane, unbelievably, was getting an erection, and the more he thought about it, the worse it got.

Think of Mary.

When he looked up at Max, he saw nothing but the same subtle amusement that was so often on his handsome face. However, it was as if Max felt he had gone too far and answered the rest of Crane’s questions as helpfully as he could. The rest of the session passed quickly with an atmosphere that felt nothing but amicable.

With five minutes left, Max steered the conversation towards movies, talking about the last film he had seen. It was the same mafia movie Crane had gone to see the previous week. He nodded enthusiastically at Max’s theory about the main protagonist.

“Oh yeah,” Crane said with a smile. “I love psychopaths.”

Max leaned forward in his seat, a Cheshire grin on his face. “I know you do.” It was nearly a purr.

Crane watched Max stand, and as he got to his own feet, he mumbled something about seeing him the following week. When Max was gone, it took a few minutes of deep breathing before he felt okay to leave the office.

 

 

Crane looked over at Mary, sleeping on the couch next to him. He felt guilty. He shouldn’t be feeling guilty. He glanced back down at the phone in his hand, the message he had reworded a dozen times waiting there for him to hit Send.

Hope you don’t mind, it’s Dr. Crane. Got your # from file. Can’t make Mon next week, Wed okay? Same time.

He could have had the receptionist reschedule for him. There was no reason why he should be the one texting. Crane took a long pull from his beer, spared another look at his slumbering wife, and sent his message out into the ether.

Almost immediately the phone buzzed in his hand.

Hey Doc. No prob Wed. Just started watching something you might like. Ch 23. Movie about a serial killer.

Crane stared at the message for a few seconds. Feeling strangely excited, he got up, went to the fridge, and grabbed another beer. Mary blinked at him sleepily when he sat back down.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” he said with a smile. “You’re not even watching your show.”

She sat up and yawned. “Not coming?” she asked, rubbing her face as she stood.

“I’m not tired,” he lied. “I thought I would stay up to watch this thing a colleague of mine recommended. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Mary nodded and squeezed his shoulder. She leaned down to give him a kiss, her breath a little sour.

“Why would I mind? Stay up and watch your show, honey. Just keep it down, okay?”

Crane nodded and watched Mary climb the stairs. He waited a few seconds, then picked up the TV remote and switched to channel twenty-three. A woman on the screen started crying hysterically. Quickly, he thumbed the volume button. He took another swig of beer and grabbed his phone.

Watching was all that he sent.

The phone vibrated a second later.

Good.

 

3 - The Rabbit Hole

Monday, July 18th

Crane checked his phone. Again. No message from Max and it was three minutes into their appointment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, tapping his pen against his knee a few times. Was he going to be “stood up” again? Last week, Max had messaged him almost ten minutes after he was supposed to have been there with a simple “can’t make it, see you next week.” Annoyed, Crane had messaged back immediately to point out that Max would be billed the usual two-hundred-dollar fee since he hadn’t given twenty-four hours’ notice. The reply that came from Max a heartbeat later was an infuriatingly short “Yeah.”

He stood up and crossed the room to look out the window. The noontime traffic below was light, and the weather had shifted from gloomy and overcast to sunny since he’d been at the office. He glanced at his phone. Seven minutes late. Fucking hell, Max. Technically, he wasn’t required to wait around if a patient was more than fifteen minutes late. However, the thought of sitting there like an idiot until Max deigned to message him only to dismiss him again… Well, fuck that. Max was playing games with him. He was sure of it. After two weeks of texting each other semi-regularly, always under the pretense of discussing movies, the radio silence of the last week was… What? Frustrating? Insulting? Worrying?

Crane pressed his palm over his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose as he stared at the empty sidewalk below.

Why are you getting so riled up about this? Max lives to manipulate. If you react to this, you’re just playing into his power games. He’s obviously not coming. Crane sighed, squinting in the direction of the nearby metro station.

You know what? If you leave right this minute, you can probably catch Mary before she heads out for her shift. Maybe you can go take a walk in the park together… hand in hand, like you used to when you were first dating back in high school. Remember that? Yeah. That sounds nice… Despite the thread of his thoughts, Crane remained at the window, scanning the street for any sign of Max.

Crane was stalling. He knew it and hated himself for it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned softly into his palm. Then he opened his eyes and fished in his pocket for his phone.

No. Don’t message him. Don’t chase after him. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s gotten under your skin. Have Debra email him the bill and tell him that he’s being referred to another therapist… hell, another clinic.

Crane felt like punching something really hard… or crushing something. Or… having sex. No, not sex. Fucking. Dirty, raunchy hard-core fucking. Shoving his dick into someone with the sole purpose of emptying his balls. No foreplay. No talking. Just raw, animal fucking.

Crane felt his cock stir and jammed his hand down the front of his Dockers to adjust himself. With a bitter laugh, he fondled himself gently for a moment. What did he know about fucking? Even as a hormonal teen, Mary had been all about making love. Not that that was a bad thing, but now that they were no longer trying for a baby, even the lovemaking had dwindled to almost nothing.

His skin prickled uncomfortably, and a cold spike of adrenaline went straight to his gut a full second before the quiet voice spoke behind him.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Crane pulled his hand out of his pants as he spun around, his mouth dry. How long had Max been standing there, watching him? It took some effort, but he managed a serene smile as he gestured to one of the seats.

“That’s fine, Max,” he lied. “Take a seat.” The clock on the wall above the door showed that Max was nearly twenty minutes late.

Max sat down and crossed one leg over the other so his ankle rested on the opposite knee. There was a large pixelated skull on his black shirt, and he wore threadbare jeans and black and white Converse. On his head was the dark-grey, army-style cap he’d worn the day they’d met, its frayed, curling brim casting his features into shadow.

Max scratched at the side of his head and tucked a brown curl behind his ear, giving Crane a crooked smile.

“Wow, Doc… You waited for me,” he said, sounding relieved and awkwardly, endearingly shy.

Crane wanted to believe it wasn’t an act, that he had been wrong in assuming Max’s absence last week and his late arrival today were some kind of game. That through some miraculous journey of self-discovery, Max had transformed into the painfully earnest young man who stared up at him with his big brown eyes full of soul. Then Max’s expression went sly, and eyes narrowed, he tilted his head at Crane, shattering the illusion. “D’awww… You stayed and waited and waited for little ol’ me even though you could have left.”

Irritated at Max’s mocking tone, Crane took his seat. “You’re assuming that I don’t have another appointment this afternoon.”

“I don’t assume anything,” Max replied, his words crisp and cold. “I know you’re not seeing anyone else today.”

“And how do you know that?” Crane opened the notebook in his lap to busy himself.

“I called and asked Debra.”

“Ah.” Crane scribbled a note in the margin of the page to remind himself to have a talk with the receptionist about Max. “So… You made me wait today on purpose then? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, Dr. Crane. That’s exactly what I’m saying, though you already knew that.”

“Did I?”

“You’d be fucking stupid not to. And you may be many things, but stupid is not one of them, thank God.”

“I don’t apprecia—”

“So how does that make you feel? Knowing that I let you wait on purpose?”

Crane ignored the question, his jaw set in annoyance for a moment. He let out a slow, calming breath.

“Max, what on earth is the point of making me wait?” he said in a weary, patronizing, and completely unprofessional tone… He couldn’t help it. “What were you hoping to achieve? Hm? Were you hoping to make me angr—”

“You would have waited even longer… just on the off chance that I came in. I made you wait here. You could have gone home and gotten in a little”—Max bit his bottom lip and punched his fist out a few times, punctuating the gesture with soft grunts—“with the missus. Instead, you stood here waiting for me.”

“Max, that’s… really inappropriate.” Crane barely kept the anger out of his voice.

“And do you know why you waited for me? Maybe you don’t even know the answer… Maybe you do…” Max went eerily still, staring at Crane without expression, waiting for him to answer.

Crane wanted to move past this posturing—somehow dispel the weird, breathless intensity that infused the room as Max once again took control of the session… and of him. Crane knew he had waited too long to answer when a coy grin dimpled Max’s cheek.

“It’s because you missed me,” Max said in a soft voice.

“I didn’t miss you.” Crane abruptly closed his notebook. “And I don’t appreciate you wasting my time.”

“Oh, but you did miss me. You missed me when I didn’t show up last week. You missed me when I didn’t answer your texts. You missed me when you turned on your TV and I wasn’t there with you, messaging you…”

“Max. Stop. I didn’t miss you.” But it was a lie. It was a damn lie. And Max knew it.

“I made you miss me. I wanted you to miss me. I wanted you to think about me when you woke up in the morning. I wanted you to think about me when you went to bed at night. I wanted you to think about me when you parted your wife’s creamy white thighs—”

“Okay. Session over. I would like you to leave.” Crane’s pulse crashed in his ears and he felt dizzy. He needed Max to stop talking.

“Ohh… Did I cross a line there?” asked Max, his brown eyes wide. “Is it because it’s all true?”

“Get out,” whispered Crane.

“You missed me. And I needed you to miss me, Dennis. Do you want to know why?”

“Dr. Crane,” Crane corrected him. He couldn’t believe he was letting this go on. He had to get to his feet and leave the room. Maybe have Debra call the police. Max was far shorter than him, but the young man was more muscular… And what if he had a weapon?

Crane didn’t move. Pathetic.

Max smiled at him. “If you missed me, then I knew I could trust you, Dennis.”

Fingers digging into the arms of his seat, Crane took slow, measured breaths. A breakthrough? More mind games? “It isn’t prudent to let this continue.”

Max blinked and sat up. “Prudent? Did you work all those long years getting your degree so you could be prudent? So you could work at treating eating disorders and sexless marriages?”

“I worked hard so I could help people.”

“No… not really. Not truly. I don’t believe that. You didn’t sit there watching documentaries on Carl Rogers going ‘Ooh… I want to heal the world!’ No, you told me watching Silence of the Lambs was what inspired you. You told me that darkness and depravity drew you like a moth to a flame. You said you wanted to study evil and see if it held up to your expectations. Do you remember that?”

Crane had indeed said those things. He even remembered the night he’d said them. One too many beers, Silence of the Lambs on Netflix, Mary working late at the Montreal General, his cellphone in hand with Max’s last message waiting like an invitation to bare his soul: tell me everything. He let out his breath, a harsh counterpoint to the quietly ticking clock above.

“Are you afraid of me, Dennis? You shouldn’t be. I’m trying my very best to make you understand that I like you. And I’m offering you the very thing you desire the most: me. You know I’m a fine specimen of amorality. I’m giving you the opportunity to look behind the curtain. No holding back.” Max stood, his smile friendly but gaze intense.

Crane almost flinched when the young man took a step towards him.

“No,” Crane said. “I’m not interested in your head games, and I’m certainly not impressed with your attempts at intimidation.” Crane’s heart was beating too fast, and the resulting light headedness hoarsened his voice.

Max raised his hands and took another step. “Intimidation? I’m not trying to intimidate you, Dennis. See?” Max dropped down to his knees and stared up at Crane, his cheek dimpled. “I’m as harmless as a kitten.”

Crane could smell Max—his cologne, the deodorant he used, the slight mint on his breath. He straightened in his chair and swallowed thickly. Max was far, far too close. Crane thought he could feel the heat emanating from him. It was ridiculous and shocking… and arousing. He should have been afraid, but instead, he was terribly excited. Crane clenched his jaw when he saw his patient’s smile slip a notch. Max’s eyes seemed to darken farther—there was hunger in them.

“Don’t fight it,” Max murmured.

“I’m not fighting anything.”

“No head games. No lies. No manipulation. No holding anything back.”

“You said you were being honest before,” Crane pointed out.

“I lied.”

“Then how can I be sure this time?” he heard himself ask in a calm voice that belied his speeding pulse.

“You have my word.” Max placed a hand over his heart.

“The word of a psychopath.”

Max’s dark brows shot up in amusement, and he clicked his tongue twice. “Ouch, Doc. You make it sound like such a bad thing. Besides… That’s not a real diagnosis.”

“It’s a personal observation.” Max’s personality disorder didn’t fit neatly into a single category. Not paranoid, too careful, too self-aware, too grounded, too emotionally stable—Max was confident and driven by an unshakable and fully formed sense of self. But then there was this imaginary friend Eddie. Crane was still uncertain whether Max actually believed Eddie existed or if he was aware he had created him as a sort of mental prosthetic—the conscience and moral compass that he had been born lacking.

Crane narrowed his eyes at Max. “What does Eddie say about this?”

Max smirked. “Eddie says he’ll protect you from me.”

Licking his bottom lip, Crane frowned. It was tempting to take him up on his offer. So tempting. Ever since he’d started seeing Max, it always felt like he was brushing the surface. This was a golden opportunity to see the true twists that Max’s mind took—witness what he was capable of.

What the hell are you thinking?

“Come on, Dennis. I’m laying my soul bare here,” said Max, tilting his head back. He lifted the peaked brim of his cap before settling it back down over his flattened curls, an easy smile on his face. “Come down the rabbit hole with me…”

During their sessions, Max had hinted at things he’d done. Terrible things. Crane knew he had purposely kept from reporting any of Max’s criminal allusions so he’d keep coming back. He already had a foot in the rabbit hole.

“I promise I’ll be as honest with you as I can be,” Max said, his expression blank. Crane trusted that more than the sunny smile.

“I have to abide by the limits—”

“—of confidentiality. Yes, I know. And that’s a rule you’re simply going to have to break. Otherwise…” Max gave a shrug.

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. You can do anything you want. It’s not like I’m going to tell on you. In fact, let me give you a sample of my honesty right now, free of any obligation on your part. And just maybe it’ll help convince you…” Max placed a hand on Crane’s knee, and Crane tensed, his heart like a jackhammer in his rib cage.

“What are you doing?” He didn’t push Max away. No… It was more like both feet in the rabbit hole.

“I’m going to unzip your pants, gently take your cock out, and put it in my mouth,” Max replied matter-of-factly as he reached for the zipper in Crane’s Dockers.

Crane grabbed his hand. “I don’t think so,” he rasped.

“Then why aren’t you moving my hand away?”

Crane tightened his hold slightly on Max’s hand but did nothing to stop him from sliding the button through the hole or easing the zipper down. Crane’s cock was throbbing up against the seam of his pants, growing more uncomfortable by the second. This is insane. He glanced up at the clock. There were only a few minutes left in their session.

“Oh, there’s plenty of time,” Max murmured, his smile charming again. “And if you’re worried that someone will come in… Well, doesn’t that make it more exciting?”

Crane winced and shut his eyes as Max’s cool fingers touched him through the opening in his boxers. He shifted his hand so it rested on Max’s forearm. The muscles slid smoothly beneath Max’s skin as he freed Crane’s cock from his pants.

“See? You want this as much as I do. And, what a gorgeous big cock you have, Dennis. Beautiful. Simply stunning. I haven’t had something this nice in my mouth in a long while…” Max said, stroking him slowly.

Crane felt something warm touch the slit in his cockhead and gasped. Opening his eyes, he held his breath as he watched Max run his tongue down his shaft and back up to the swollen crown, his gaze locked with Crane’s.

Max pulled away and grinned. “Does that feel good?”

Crane nodded slowly. He couldn’t tell what he felt more: aghast or thrilled.

What are you doing? part of him was screaming. The other part was mesmerized by the licked shine of Max’s bottom lip as he stared up at him, Crane’s cock in his hand. With the other hand, Max flipped his army cap front to back so the rim was out of the way.

A thought stuck in his mind—about whether any of his colleagues had been sucked off in this office by one of their patients—but it fled the moment Max’s mouth enveloped him, hot and wet, and he leaned his head back on the chair with a quiet groan, eyes closed.

In less than a minute, Crane was breathing heavily, sweat soaking the thin cotton of his shirt. His cock slid out of Max’s mouth, and he heard him chuckle.

“I know I’m good, but I’m not that good. I take it that it’s been a while? Does your wife not have a taste for cock? Hm, Dennis? Are you imagining that it’s her mouth on you?”

Crane reached out and cupped the back of Max’s head to pull him back down. Obediently, Max’s lips slid around his cock again, taking him deep enough that Crane felt him try to suppress a gag. Crane flared his nostrils, teeth clenched, and held Max in place.

“It’s ‘Doctor Crane’, Max—my wife’s the only one who calls me Dennis—and you’re the one sucking my cock. No one else,” Crane said in an even tone, the one he saved for therapy sessions. Then he dropped his voice into a low growl. “Now… Don’t stop until I’m done with you.” That he was in charge was pure fiction, he knew that, but it made it easier for him somehow. And… he liked that Max was humouring him.

What else do you think Max will humour?

Crane crushed his eyes closed. How deep would he go down the rabbit hole?

When Max nodded as best as he could, Crane eased up on his hold. However, he kept his hand on the back of Max’s head, his fingers buried in the mess of dark curls to ground himself in the moment, and a moment was all that it took.

“Gggguuuhhh,” he choked out, arching back against the chair as he unloaded into Max’s talented sucking mouth. By the time he sagged back, empty, warm, and dazed, staring into the gentle mockery in Max’s eyes, he felt like he’d just signed a contract in blood.

“So, you’re in for a penny, in for a pound, eh, Doc?” whispered Max. Licking his top lip, he winked, then rose to his feet, adjusting his cap to face forward again. He pointed to Crane’s open fly. “Plenty more of that, I promise.”

“You’re in a very promising mood,” Crane said, grimacing as he tucked himself away and zipped up. He felt dirty.

“I told you. I like you. And I’d like to show you something tonight.”

“On TV?” Crane asked. He stood, a touch shaky. A man had given him a blowjob. And not just any man, one that was possibly criminally insane. And it was the best blowjob he’d ever had.

“No TV. In person.” Max smiled up at Crane. The dirty, guilty feeling was already fading fast, replaced by a pathetic eagerness over seeing Max again so soon.

What had Max said? In for a penny, in for a pound. His traitorous mind was already pointing out that Mary had another graveyard shift at the hospital that night. She’d never know he was gone as long as he was back before she was.

“What is it?” he asked, wary.

“Well, that’d spoil it, n’est-ce pas?” Max grinned. “I’ll text you an address later and you’ll meet me there.”

Without waiting for an answer, Max spun on his heel and waved back over his head as he opened the door. “See ya, Doc. You’ve given me plenty to swallow. I’ll think about it at length later tonight and see what comes of it…” he said cheerfully, loud enough that anyone in the vicinity would hear.

Red-faced, Crane stood in the middle of the small office, knowing he was in over his head but wondering how long he’d suffer having to wait for Max to text him.

 

Coming Sept. 30th, 2016

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