Father Figure

by Kichuku Neko, TogaQ

  He was asleep, his body curled under the blanket. I sat on the chair and watched him as I drank a beer. I was tired but I couldn’t sleep. After I finished the beer, I got the first-aid kit again to change the dressing on his finger.

  He woke the moment I lifted his left hand. His eyes were large with fear, but he said nothing as I unwound the gauze. He had bled through it.

  “Sorry,” I said to him again as I cleaned the cut with alcohol. It must have stung, but he didn’t make any sound. The cut was clear after I wiped away the dried blood. “This will leave a bad scar. While it heals, try to flex your finger so the scar tissue won’t draw your finger tight.”

  He probably didn’t know what I meant, but he remained still as I wrapped fresh gauze around his injury. I kissed him on the forehead and told him I would draw a bath for him and make him breakfast.

  I did just that. I filled the tub with hot water and released his collar. His movements were pained and slow, no doubt his limbs were strained by having been in one position for hours. He had a problem standing. When I proposed that he might crawl if he liked, he gave me an outraged glance and struggled to his feet. He was unsteady as he walked to the bathroom. After he stepped into the tub, I told him not to wet his fresh dressing.

  As he sat in the tub, almost motionless, I cooked. I had him in my peripheral vision, watching him look at the small panes of window above with a sad look — a little caged bird looking at the small hatched door. Somehow, the thought of it made me smile.

  “Let me help you wash your hair,” I told him. The breakfast was made, kept hot on the stove. He had tried to wash with one hand but wasn’t too successful. He shook his head at my offer.

  “No need to be shy,” I told him as I rolled up my sleeves, folding them until they reached my elbows. “We are related, after all.”

  “I don’t need help,” he said, trying to move away from me. Water sloshed out.

  “I decide if you do or do not,” I said, removing the warmth from my voice. “Stay still.”

  He was tense — the muscles on his body were drawn tight; I could feel it as I ran a handful of liquid soap along his chest. He had a solid body, lean. He took care of himself.

  “Mother never talked about who my father was. It didn’t occur to me that it was strange not to know. Single parents are not uncommon in this age I suppose. I didn’t think to ask until I was five. I came home with an invitation for the school’s Father and Son event. I asked her who my father was and how I could find him to invite him....

  I trailed off. I told him to lie back in the tub, but he didn’t move. I pressed him down by his shoulders until he slid back, his knees folding up as the length of his body submerged into the water. I maneuvered him until his head was hanging over the rim of the tub. I unhooked the shower nozzle from its cradle and wet his hair.

  “That was the first time she beat me,” I said, combing through his wet locks with my fingers. I lathered shampoo into his hair. “I don’t even remember what she hit me with. I just remember how angry she looked as she hit me...nd continued to hit me even as I cowered into a corner of the kitchen, balled up tight and wishing I could disappear. I told her I was sorry, although I didn’t know what the apology was for.”

  “I’m sorry...” he said.

  “What for? For making a baby with an insane woman?”

  He half-closed his eyes. “No. I did love her when I was with her,” he said. “But.... “But there’s someone else you loved more,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “You can’t help who you love,” I said. “Just as I can’t help who I love.” I rinsed the lather from his hair. We were quiet again.

  “What do you hope to accomplish, doing this to me?” he asked finally.

  I dipped my hands into the water to touch his chest. The small nibs of his nipples felt exquisite against my palms.

  “I intend to make you understand that I am the only family you need,” I said, “that you can’t live without me...”

  “That is insane — “ he started to say. My fingers curled inward until the nails gouged at his skin. He winced, letting the rest of the sentence die.

  “Let me see,” I told him, gripping his nipples between my fingertips and pulling on them until he made a sound. “Let me see how you play with yourself.”

  He tried to move then, but he hadn’t any kind of footing. He only splashed more water out of the tub.

  “Or would you like for me to do it for you again?” “No!” he said too loudly and too quickly.

  “I am a little hurt,” I said and gave him a dramatic sigh. “With how hard you came last night — “ “Shut up!” He cut me off. A flush colored his cheeks.

  “You must have had to relieve yourself in the years that you were alone, after your wife passed,” I said and licked along his ear. “Show me how you do it.”

  When he didn’t move — except for the long inhale and exhale of his breath, I took his right hand and folded it over his crotch. He flinched, as if the touch had been unexpected.

  “I will be more than happy to replace your hand with mine,” I told him. “Would you like that?” “Don’t touch me...” he said in a whisper. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

  My hand didn’t lift from his until his fingers wrapped around his cock, the flaccid shaft disappearing in his closed fist. The flush on his face darkened as he pushed and pulled his cock through the hollow of his hand. The water made splish-splash sounds, echoing in the little room as he tried to wring out an erection. I whispered encouragement in his ear, telling him to pump himself harder and quicker.

  “Please don’t...” he started to say, but his words were caught in his throat.

  “You are getting hard,” I said, cupping his chin and pulling it backwards until he was looking up at me. Except he wasn’t focused on me — his eyes were half-lidded, staring past me..He was thinking of someone else and although I was irate that he was, I forgave him in the same moment. I just wanted to see him in the midst of pleasure.

  He was panting, his mouth slightly parted. The length of his cock had grown as he became erect, the swollen tip squeezed through his grip.

  “Feel good?” I asked into his opened mouth.

  He didn’t answer nor did I expect him to. I slipped my tongue through his parted lips. With my mouth covering his, he couldn’t breathe very well. His teeth grazed my tongue, as if he were trying to decide whether to bite down or not. I continued to kiss him, unrelenting, hard and deep, until I felt like I was devouring him. It felt good. It felt better than kissing him that day, when he lay unconscious, when nothing was reciprocated.

  I opened my eyes to watch his feverish pace trying to bring himself to orgasm. The spattering sound of the water became louder, almost violent as his motions became harsher. He was handling himself even more abrasively than I had done last night. He probably liked sex on the rough side, I thought. I bit his tongue then, trapping it between my teeth. He cried out, the sound stifled in his throat.

  “Almost there?” I asked him. I raked my teeth over the flat of his tongue. I kissed him again — this time I didn’t let up until his body arched up and he screamed into my mouth. He didn’t cum very much, but he came hard. The viscous fluid that shot from the tip dripped back into the soapy water, disappearing in an instant.

  “Good... very good,” I told him. His body slackened, strength sapped from it. He was panting hard and if I hadn’t hooked an arm around his chest, he might have slipped under the water.

  “You did good,” I told him and wrapped my hand around his half-hard cock. He tried to push me away but his movements were sluggish and without much vigor. He jolted up when I pressed a finger against his asshole. I didn’t push in. The pad of my finger circled the tight pucker. “We’ll use this soon and make you feel even better.”

  “No...” he said between clenched teeth.

  I laughed and gave him a kiss on top of his head, his perfumed damp locks brushed against my lips and chin
as I did so.

  “Finish up,” I told him as I stood up and left the bathroom to fetch a towel. I had hung up the shirts and pants I had stuffed into his suitcase. I pulled a shirt off the wire hanger and slung it over one arm. He was sitting up in the tub, his knees folded up with his arms wrapped around them.

  “Come on out,” I told him.

  He was slow to comply. His face no longer had the crimson blush on his cheeks, but he still looked shamed, humiliated. I smiled at his modesty.

  “You have a wonderful body,” I said as I toweled him off. “I saw you run often. It’ll be a couple of weeks without your usual exercise. I hope you will forgive me for taking you out of your routine.”

  He didn’t answer me. His tousled hair with its wet unkempt locks made him look younger, almost my age. I gave him his shirt which he buttoned up half-way. The tail of the shirt covered half his ass.

  “The seat will be a little cold,” I warned him as I patted one stool that was tucked under the small round table. He slid onto the seat, but he wasn’t concerned about the cold surface. He was staring at the small link of silver chain, the same one that had tethered him to the floor — that was strung from below the table. I fastened the end of it to his collar.

  “The table’s bolted to the floor,” I told him as I went to the stove to get breakfast. “Don’t worry about tipping it over and having it strangle you.”

  I almost laughed out loud, hearing the ridiculousness of the statement. I moved the small mound of scrambled eggs from one end of the pan onto two paper plates. I had pan-fried two thick cuts of ham. I cut them into cubes before serving them, adding two pieces of untoasted bread on top. I served it to him with a plastic cup of water.

  “Not exactly gourmet,” I said, as I slid the plate of food in front of him. I stuck a plastic spoon into the eggs.

  He looked down at it and didn’t make any move to eat it until I sat down across from him. I ate my food with a plastic fork.

  “How long do you intend to do this?” he asked finally.

  “Eat,” I told him. “We can talk later.”

  He bit down on his lower lip. He was becoming increasingly upset. I ate, watching him.

  “I didn’t know she had you!” he said, his voice was shaking as he spoke. “I did nothing wrong!”

  I speared a piece of the ham and ate it. “I didn’t say you did anything wrong,” I said.

  “Why are you doing this to me?!”

  “I told you,” I said, tapping the fork against the plate impatiently. “Until you understand we are our only family left.”

  He shoved the plate off the table. He tried to stand up but only managed to topple the stool. It clattered noisily on the wood floor.

  “I am wearing a fucking collar, chained to a table... you had me jerk off in front of you and last night you...” he paused. His eyes were wet. If he could have, he probably would’ve taken a swing at me, but the small table between us had just enough physical separation for me to be out of reach.

  “Get it out,” I told him and nibbled on the bread. “But don’t piss me off.”

  “Piss you off?” he said. He pounded a fist on the table, rattling it hard enough for his cup of water to tip and spill. “Who the hell are you to decide who I should be?”

  He held up his bandaged finger.

  “This is the only family I will ever care about,” he said. “You barge into my life and do this to me...fuck you!”

  Tears streamed from one corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek. He was angry, probably the most furious I’d seen him so far. He looked endearingly weak in spite of his strong words.

  I picked up my unfinished food and left it on the small kitchen counter. I kicked his stool away, letting it roll to the side until it struck the wall. I threw the emptied plastic cup that he had spilled to the side and swept the small pool of water onto the floor. I ignored the fallen plate of food that had scattered on the floor.

  I punched in the code to unlock the door and went outside. It didn’t take long for me to come back. “I did warn you,” I said.

  I snapped the long birch switch I had cut from one of the trees. It was still hard, frozen. “Stop this! You can’t do this!”

  I shoved him against the table, the edge of it digging into his midsection. I pressed one side of his face against the table top and held him down by his neck.

  “It’s terribly wrong, isn’t it?” I said. “’Spare the rod, spoil the child’...”

  He cursed at me and that curse turned into a scream, when I slashed the branch across his ass. A dark red line rose; a beautiful contrast against his pale skin.

  “Are you sorry about your tantrum?” I asked him and swung the branch down again; the new red mark crossing the first.

  He didn’t scream again, although I struck him harder. He squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth clenched. The sharp shrill of the birch was music, as it fell, breaking the surface of his skin. I counted ten strokes and stopped.

  “You are never to speak of anyone but me again,” I said and unclipped the chain that held him to the table. I had a fistful of his hair when I pulled him up straight. Where the table edge had been, was a reddish line along his belly.

  “I actually don’t like hurting you,” I said as I shoved him down to his knees and held his head close to the food that he had spilled. “But if I have to, to make you learn, to make you appreciate what I do for you, I will.”

  I pushed his face closer to the small mound of eggs, his nose nearly touching it.

  “If you ever do this again,” I told him. “I will wire your mouth open and feed you your own shit, understand?”

  He shivered then, his body racked with sobs. That was the first time I felt bad. My anger was suddenly gone, replaced with guilt. I got up. He didn’t. He was afraid to move. I picked up his stool and set it upright. I told him to sit back in it and he finally stood, with great reluctance. I apologized for hurting him as I went to cook for him again. He sat quietly, his eyes staring fixedly at the table top. Obedient. I didn't chain his collar again. I didn't need to.

  I set the new meal down again and laid the spoon on top of it; he took it without argument. I settled back down on my seat, with my own breakfast that had gane cold. This time, he ate without a word and without looking at me.

  CHAPTER 3

  He said nothing and did nothing, even after the meal. He remained seated on the stool, his eyes fixed on the surface of the table even as I cleaned the food off the floor. I left the papers where they’d scattered the night before — something to remind him where he was and what he was.

  I told him to lie down on the bed, something he did with great reluctance. I looked at the welts I had left on him — they had darkened into bruises. Pink raised ridges framed the hideous marks.

  “I’d rather not hurt you,” I said, running my fingers along the wounds. He cringed, his entire body tightening. I took his hand into mine so I could change the dressing. He was quiet, looking away when the gauze was unwrapped and his finger exposed.

  “It’s a little better,” I told him, as I cleaned it before re-wrapping it.

  I left him sitting on the bed, staring at the freshly changed gauze on his finger. I let him be while I cleaned up the small kitchen. The smell of breakfast still hung heavily in the air — even with the small windows in the bathroom opened and the cold coming in, overpowering the heaters that were on. After a while I shut the windows and the cabin started to warm again.

  “What will you do?” he asked finally, looking up at me. “What will you do if I can’t love you the way you want me to?”

  He cringed slightly following the question, as if he expected immediate retribution for it. I sat down on the bed and he shrank back when I reached out to him, but there wasn’t anywhere for him to go I stroked his hair.

  “Would you kill me?”

  “I don’t want to,” I said.

  “But you would.”

  I leaned in and kissed him on his forehead. “Let’s not talk
about that now,” I said and tried to kiss him. He turned away.

  “We need to talk about that now,” he said. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you, but that wasn’t my intention. I would have been involved in your life in some way if I had known.”

  I seized his chin and turned his head to look at me. “That’s not good enough.”

  “Then you might as well just kill me now,” he said, his voice rising to match his souring mood again. “I can’t give you what you want!”

  I pressed my body over him until he was pinned underneath. He struggled, but it was a token effort.

  There was not much strength or will behind it. He was tired.

  “Really,” I said, pulling the length of the chain that I had bolted into the wall in between slats of the bed frame. He saw it and fought, writhing hard, determined not to be hooked to the end of the chain. I almost laughed at his valiant effort. He struggled so hard that the wound on his finger split open again. A small dot of blood seeped through the layer of gauze and came to the surface. I let him fight, allowing him to do as he liked until his newfound vigor evaporated, then I snapped the chain into the eyelet on his collar.