by K. M. Szpara
“Yeah, and you have access to the Third’s person, house, social circle—”
“I guess I have access to his space, but I can’t—”
“Not only his space, but his computer system, maybe even his bank accounts and laboratory, someday.”
I do not tell him I’ve already been to the lab. That I had sex with Alex there. I feel both ashamed and aroused thinking about it.
“But even better,” Roger continues, oblivious, “you’re clearly smart. I can feel the fire inside you.”
“I won’t hurt him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say. “I’m not that kind of person.”
“Oh god, we wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Roger looks offended. “Just take notes—mental notes. The more information you can get us about Formula 3.0, the trillionaires’ social and political plans, places they frequent, anything that excites or angers them, and so on, the better we’ll be able to effect real change.”
“Effect real change” sounds like a campaign slogan. No organization needs to know Alex’s whereabouts unless they’re planning to hurt him. And what if something happens to him? What happens to me, and what if the cops think I’ve done it? Alex’s off-med Docile would be an obvious suspect. I’d go to jail—and so would my family, when my contract with Alex was voided.
This is too much. I can’t do this. “Come on. We have a lesson to get through.” I stand and lead Roger down to the kitchen, where his supplies still rest on the kitchen counter.
He looks like he wants to carry the conversation further. Get me to commit. But Empower Maryland could ruin me and my family, and I’m not sure they realize that. Or care.
* * *
Dinner is almost ready when Alex gets home. His head turns immediately to the kitchen, nose in the air. “Smells good in here.” He hangs his coat up, then joins me. “What’s for dinner?”
I recite the recipe exactly as Roger taught me. “Lamb chops with a balsamic reduction and roasted butternut squash.”
Alex tastes the thickening sauce and nods. Took me three tries to get it right. He heads upstairs without telling me why. I don’t ask. He’s probably going to change clothes or shower—something trivial. But since I’m not allowed to ask superfluous questions, I can’t help but wonder.
I plate the lamb, hoping its insides are still pink. When I overcooked my test chop, Roger threw the whole thing in the bin, still hot. I almost reached into the composter after it, but he wrapped a hand around my wrist and held my eyes. Just as with the uncooked rice, wasting food is part of the game, now.
When the sauce is finished, I set it on a trivet between the two prepared table places, then join Alex. I salivate watching him take the first bite.
“Good flavor,” he says. “Could be a bit rarer, but you’re close.”
“Thank you,” I say, releasing my held breath.
With a tap, Alex brings up a document on the dining room table. He reads while he eats, ignoring me. I eat at Alex’s pace, despite my hunger. After we both finish, I clear the plates. Alex touches an electronic document; then, with a few taps of his fingers, e-paper materializes between his fingers.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask. Roger gave me a quick rundown of the bar, though not enough to mix cocktails like Alex served at his birthday party.
He doesn’t answer right away. I don’t move, fixed in his gaze. “Yes,” he says. “Pour us each a glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon and meet me upstairs.”
He reads while he walks.
I take my time, holding the bottle steady, unscrewing the cork, and selecting the right glasses. Now that I’ve started lessons, I feel pressured to do everything right. Roger said he’d be checking my progress.
I walk slowly up the stairs, holding a stem in each hand. Roger assured me I’ll be able to pair wine with food in a month. I nudge the door open with my elbow. Dim lights halo the headboard. Alex reads in bed.
Naked.
I stare into the dark red liquid as I approach. Alex turns down the covers beside him and takes one of the glasses from me. He wants me to lie with him. Cuddle. I work up the nerve to join him, but he shakes his head.
“Clothes.” Alex sips his wine.
I undress with as little performance as possible, putting my clothes in the hamper. Being naked with Alex isn’t as hard now as it was the first time, but it still takes effort to keep my hands by my sides and relax my muscles. I ease my own tension by keeping mobile: rolling my shoulders, rubbing my hands over my forearms, flexing my fingers.
“That’s better.” Alex’s smile is soft and warm as he welcomes me into the bed beside him.
He raises his right arm, inviting me to lie with him. I can do that. I’ve already let him pleasure me, called myself his good boy, licked my own come from his fingers. This is nothing. This is easy—enjoyable, even, if I try hard enough. I slip under the covers beside Alex and rest against him. It feels kind of nice.
He hands my glass back to me, then takes another sip from his. I bring mine slowly to my lips, very aware that the sheets are cream colored and my wine is blood red. Alex continues to read, occasionally rubbing my side, kissing my head, drinking his wine. I gulp the dry alcohol down until the flavor doesn’t make me wince.
His hand appears out of nowhere to steal my empty glass. When Alex angles my neck back and kisses me, I notice the buzz in my head and hum below my skin. He tastes like wine, and I want another drink.
By now, I can guess how Alex wants my mouth and tongue. The more the alcohol settles into my system, the more I give in. I remember how he felt against me—on me, in me. I want him and I don’t even hate myself for it. I’m sure I will, later.
“Alex.” I moan and nuzzle against him. My cock slides against his. He likes when I say his name. “Please, Alex.”
“No, no, no.”
No? No. Yes. Definitely yes. I’ve behaved the way he likes; what more does he want?
Alex props his pillows up against the headboard and scoots back against them. “I assume, from previous conversations, that you’ve never given head before.”
“I don’t think so.” I don’t even know what that means.
“Get between my legs. Hands and knees.”
I grip the sheets so my heartbeat won’t knock me over. Warmth crept over my skin while I wasn’t paying attention.
“Lick your lips.”
I do, cooling them with my saliva.
Alex’s hand moves to his cock. His hips inch slowly up to meet his strokes. A low moan rumbles in his throat. “If you forget everything else, remember this.”
I look up at him, waiting, not even breathing.
“Swallow.”
“Swallow,” I repeat.
“Always, unless I say otherwise.” Alex threads his free hand through my hair.
He continues to pump his cock without my help, which is perfectly fine with me. I can handle being the hole he fucks. I can lie beneath him and call out his name while he comes inside me—right now I even want to.
I don’t know if I can suck him—give head, whatever these trillionaires call it.
“Go on.” His voice is breathy. “Watch your teeth.”
He guides my mouth down onto his cock and I have no choice but to open wide. I close my lips around the head. My tongue brushes the sensitive skin. Alex juts up, suddenly. I choke and pull back, but he keeps me close.
“Take your time.”
I wet my lips again. Putting my mouth on Alex’s cock isn’t as repulsive as it should be, especially not with him gently fingering my hair and smoothing his fingers down the back of my neck. The sensitive skin is smooth, almost soft, despite its rigid core. I move my tongue deliberately against the head—I can’t fit much more inside me.
Soon, his fingers press against my neck, urging me deeper. I breathe slowly through my nose and inch down the shaft until I gag. Saliva wells in my mouth, drips down Alex’s cock, and slides between his fingers as he works himself.
I strain against his grip, but Alex ho
lds me in place. When I glance up, he’s not even looking at me. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, chest heaving with heavy breaths. I’m not with him anymore; I’m not a person. I’m a wet hole.
“That’s good,” he whispers, while I do my best. “Just like that.”
My jaw is sore when Alex moans and bucks his hips up, ramming his cock down my throat. I gag, but he holds me still as come fills my mouth. I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but it coats my dry throat. Alex’s grip finally softens as his cock does. I pull back with a mouthful of come and catch his eye.
Swallow.
I force it down and wipe the tears from my eyes. They’re a physical reaction to gagging, nothing more.
Alex releases a post-orgasmic sigh. “Good boy.” He pets my hair and fluffs his pillows. “Get the rest of it and then you can go brush your teeth.”
The rest of it. I resign myself to licking him clean. He shudders, still sensitive, then dries himself with a tissue. I take my cue to leave.
No amount of brushing can remove the taste from my mouth. I sip mouthwash right from the bottle. The alcohol burns my throat. I have to go out there and smile and kiss him like I enjoyed myself.
I enjoyed myself when Alex licked my hole. The memory sends a quick jolt of pleasure to my groin. I breathe deep and reassure myself: I knew when I signed the contract that he’d use me like this. I knew, and I still signed.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, safe behind the closed bathroom door. “It’s okay to hate yourself and it’s okay to enjoy yourself. Sometimes.”
Alex seemed to like giving me an orgasm. He didn’t take anything in return when he easily could’ve. I stare at my face in the mirror. It looks the same as always, but I know where those lips have been, what that tongue has done.
Alex liked it, though. Maybe that’s enough. It might have to be.
13
ALEX
The first two months with Elisha are the longest of my life. Preakness is still a few months away, but the invitation to Mariah’s annual costume party arrived, this morning, with a personalized message attached:
Dear Alex, it says. If you’ve worked as hard with Elisha as you have on Formula 3.0, I hope my party will provide an opportunity to show him off. I’ve already arranged journalists and photographers for the event, eager to spotlight your success. All my love, Mariah.
Only one month until Elisha is put to the test in front of upper-crust Baltimore—the families whose roots run deep through this city, who are shareholders at Bishop Laboratories, political officials, moguls and entrepreneurs in their fields. He’s still unpredictable. As my Docile, his behavior does not reflect on him; it reflects on me. My ability to manage. To steer and represent Bishop Labs.
I set the invitation aside, on my desk, bring up my digital calendar, and enter the details so I won’t forget. Why Mariah insists on mailing paper invitations I’ll never understand.
With my letter opener, I slice open the seal on my other piece of mail: a small rigid envelope with two tiny plastic bags, a business card, and a note inside.
Dear Dr. Bishop, it reads. The three enclosed items were found in our laundry facilities and inadvertently returned to another customer. We send them along, now, with our deepest apologies for the error and delay. Please consider your next service complimentary. All our best, Sisson Street Suds.
I toss the packing paper and note, then overturn the first tiny plastic bag. The white-gold tie clip from my grandmother falls into my palm. I squeeze my fist around it, relieved it made its way back to me and horrified that I let something so precious slip away.
I take it, along with the rest, into my bedroom, and pull open the top drawer of my dresser. It’s shallow with black suede inset and shaped to display jewelry and accessories for ease of selection. I place the tie clip with the others; the engraved Legatum nostrum futurum est catches the light. The other plastic bag contains a set of monogrammed cuff links, which are replaceable, but that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to have them back. I set them in their place, then pick up the business card.
I flip the blank white side over to reveal text:
R. WARD—OUTREACH
EMPOWER MARYLAND
Baltimore City Division at
Clipper Mill, Woodberry
E. Halliday—Director
I purse my lips, pinch the card hard between my fingers. When I was in third grade, Empower Marylanders bashed in the window of the car that drove me home from school with a baseball bat. In sixth grade, they protested my first school dance so violently, the administration had to call the police. For decades, they have threatened my family, vandalized our property, slandered our name.
Our publicist calls Empower Maryland a “misguided anarchist organization that masquerades as a nonprofit and has nothing better to do besides protest Bishop Laboratories.” I find that description generous. As far as I’m concerned, Empower Marylanders are terrorists.
They want to dismantle Bishop Laboratories. Imprison my family. They won’t stop until everything we’ve worked for has been destroyed, which is ridiculous, because we’ve done nothing but help debtors. Baltimore would still be drowning in debt if it weren’t for my grandmother. We cleaned this city up. I just spent three fucking million dollars—not to mention an additional twelve thousand per year—to support the poor. Every time one of us “trillionaires” signs another Docile, we help clear debt. And every debtor in one of our homes is another that doesn’t go to prison.
This business card is not mine.
“Elisha!” I shout.
I hear his bare feet hit the hardwood and trudge up the stairs. He peeks over the threshold. “Yes, Alex?”
“Here. Now.” I do not disguise the edge in my voice.
Elisha walks as if upstream, slowly and with effort. He knows what’s coming. This is his. I can fucking smell the guilt on him.
“Where did you get this?” I hold up the card.
He glances at it for only a second before his face falls.
“Look at me.” I am not letting him off easy for this. “Where did you get this?”
“I didn’t know—”
“For every lie you tell me, you will earn another fifteen minutes in the cubby. For every hesitation or indirect answer, another five. You begin at sixty minutes.”
“I didn’t know she gave it to—”
“Sixty-five minutes.”
Distress lines his face. “I’m not lying; I didn’t know she gave it to me!”
“Who is she?”
“Her name was Eugenia. I don’t know her last name.”
“It’s Halliday.” I flip the card so he can see the text. “Where did you meet her?”
“On my run.”
“When?”
“The first time you showed me the route.”
“Was there anyone else? Who is R. Ward?”
“It’s—” He struggles to force the word out.
“Seventy minutes.”
“—Roger. He’s also my cooking tutor.”
“Consider him fired. Why did they give you this?”
“I told you, I didn’t know. Eugenia slipped it into my pocket; I never saw it before it went to the cleaners.”
By now, I think he’s telling the truth without reserve, and Empower Maryland is the type to do something like that.
“Did they say anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That they would help me if I wanted it.”
“Anything else?”
“They mentioned my mother. I can’t remember their exact words, but they implied they could help her, too.”
Right. His mother who allegedly suffers from side effects of Dociline. Another lie. If she is sick, she was probably that way to begin with. I could send a doctor to check on her. Prove that it wasn’t Dociline. Maybe even treat her, as a gesture of goodwill.
No, what am I thinking? This is a business relationship; I owe his family nothing outside of our contract. His moth
er is not my responsibility.
“This is the first you’ve seen this business card?” I confirm.
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t contacted Roger Ward or Eugenia Halliday?”
“No!” Elisha’s eyes meet mine, voice fills with desperation. “I don’t even know where Clipper Mill is—they found me.”
I flip the card between my fingers several times while I center myself. Elisha’s punishments must suit the infraction, not my anger.
“Please believe—”
“Be quiet.”
He presses his lips together as if they might burst apart of their own free will.
“You are forbidden to have any contact with anyone from Empower Maryland, again. If they approach you, you are to tell them such as many times as they need to hear it. If they continue, you can refer them to me, personally. And if they approach, you are to tell me immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Good. They do not have your interests at heart. They care only about themselves and their deluded cause.”
“Yes, Alex,” Elisha whispers.
“Now, undress.”
I disappear into the bathroom and fill the cup beside the sink with cold water. Confinement is a harsh punishment; I need to be careful administering it.
When I return, he’s standing naked, hands clasped behind his back. He drops his head when I look at him. Elisha’s breathing is loud and ragged against the silence.
For a moment, I worry. What if he’s not ready for this? What if he has a panic attack, and I have to pull him out? I’d waste weeks of training
The look he gives begs me not to. I see the offer on the quiver of his lips. He’d take a thousand lines or an hour of rice. Two hours, even. But he knows that bargaining is as bad as back-talking.
“Though the cubby is soundproof, I’m giving you this.” I press a quarter-sized button into his hand. “If you press it, a buzzer will play over the sound system. You are only to press it for emergencies. Understand?”
“Yes.” The button disappears in his trembling, sweaty fist.
I thrust the cold water into his other hand. “And drink this first. The whole thing.”