by Sidney Bell
“Between every blow, take a breath. Think of each blow as the first. Don’t tense up. Your mind will follow your body, so try to keep your body relaxed.”
Tobias sucked in another breath and another, and when he’d met some unknown criteria, Sullivan nodded his satisfaction and stepped back. Tobias knew what was coming, knew that he had to brace for it, but Sullivan had said not to. Sullivan had said breathe and don’t tense up.
He obeyed, and Sullivan hit him again.
It hurt. No amount of breathing could possibly take the pain away. But the brilliant agony stayed in his body, didn’t touch his mind. It hurt good, in a way that went beyond words. He’d never be able to explain why. It simply was. Sullivan was hurting him and Tobias liked it. His legs were spread wide open and he was exposed and humiliated, and he liked it.
That nervy urge to comply that he’d known every other time they had sex was finally building. All he had to do was breathe and be here. Sullivan would handle the rest. Sullivan was strong, Sullivan was in charge. Tobias could go away for a while, and Sullivan would take care of him. Tobias put his head down, breathed, and submitted.
He had no idea how much time went by. He only knew that sweet, perfect quiet, that warm, bubbling happiness brewing behind it.
At some point the pain hit a sharper note and Tobias felt a tiny tendril of worry in the quiet. Without thinking, he mumbled, “Yellow.”
Sullivan stopped. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s it. Good boy, Tobias. That’s perfect. I’m so proud of you.”
The praise slid into the quiet and he closed his eyes, shivering with the pleasure of it. He could sense Sullivan moving behind him, could feel hands on his body, on his ass, pulling his cheeks apart. The skin felt tight and swollen and sensitive to the gentlest touch.
“You like this?” Sullivan asked.
Tobias nodded. Wet fingers slid inside him, opening him up, and he was so relaxed that it seemed effortless for his body to obey.
“You’re so good,” Sullivan whispered. “Look at you, so soft for me, you’re so good.”
Tobias made a wordless noise of contentment, the feeling of being full starting to creep up on him. Sullivan’s fingers rubbed that spot inside him that made him cry out into the duvet.
“That’s it, sweetheart.” Sullivan’s other hand was stroking the tormented skin of his ass, the sensations immense and awful and wonderful all at once. “Give it up for me.”
He was on the verge of coming, Tobias realized. He was rocking into the bed, dick dragging against the fabric, and he wanted nothing more than to have Sullivan closer for when he came, close enough to touch and hold on to.
“You!” he cried.
Sullivan’s hands paused. “What about me?”
“Want you.”
“You have me. I’m right here.”
“No—” His mouth wouldn’t work. Words seemed to take years to make it from his brain to his lips. “Want you. Here. Inside me.”
“Tobias...”
“Fuck me,” he managed, and that, that was what he wanted. “Please, please fuck me. Please?”
“All right,” Sullivan soothed, pressing his forehead against Tobias’s shoulder. “Shh, all right. Give me a moment. I’ll be out of sight, but I’m not leaving you.”
Tobias knew that on some level that he didn’t question. Sullivan knew he didn’t like being left, and Sullivan wouldn’t leave. Tobias could be angry, he could shove and yell and curse at Sullivan, he could push back and be...be bad and mean and immature, and Sullivan wouldn’t leave. Sullivan would listen and understand and when Tobias needed to push, Sullivan would push back and push harder, he’d double down and take Tobias in hand and break down any wall between them until Tobias was here and small and safe and quiet and—
And Sullivan still wouldn’t leave.
Tobias buried his face in the bed, the fabric damp against his skin, and at the sound of Sullivan coming back, the crinkle of a condom wrapper being opened a second later, he said into the blankets, “Please, Sullivan,” all over again.
“Shh, sweetheart. I’m here. I’ll give you what you need.” Sullivan’s strong thighs pushed his own wider apart, and the head of his dick, hard and hot, pressed against his rim. “Anything you need.”
Sullivan slid in on a single stroke, balls deep, coming to rest against Tobias’s impossibly sore buttocks. He gave Tobias time to adjust to the thickness, and his eventual thrusts were slow, small rocking pulses of his hips. They drove his dick directly into Tobias’s prostate, ground his pelvis against Tobias’s burning skin, and it was excruciatingly good, the pleasure and pain mixing, warm and heady and filling him up. He couldn’t move or think. He could only lie there, open and willing, and let Sullivan use him, trust Sullivan to take care of him in turn.
He felt Sullivan’s fingers trembling against his skin, felt Sullivan’s lips brush against his ear and shoulders and neck, heard Sullivan whisper his name in a shaking voice, and thought, he feels it too.
* * *
“You don’t have to be what they want,” Sullivan said, much, much later into the darkness. “You know that, don’t you? You don’t have to be what I want, either. There’s nothing wrong with being what you want.”
Tobias was cuddled up beside him, sleepy and spent and boneless. Even after the cooling gel applied to the welts on his ass and thighs and an hour of cuddling and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, the world still felt muted and dull compared to where he’d been, in that silence where he didn’t have to do anything or be anything. The whole world apart from Sullivan, that was, whose voice and hands and smell were the sun in the center of a cold universe.
“Isn’t there?” Tobias asked, because he’d spent the past two weeks coming to that realization, but it’d gone so wrong today that he couldn’t help doubting.
Sullivan’s arm tightened around him. “No.”
Tobias closed his eyes briefly at the certainty in that single word. “The last time I broke down like this was in high school. They sent me away. They sent me to Woodbury. I know why they’re scared. This looks the same way to them.”
“Maybe it does look the same,” Sullivan said quietly. “But there’s a difference between breaking down and breaking out. You can be happy without losing them. You just have to find the middle ground between getting your needs met and being a dick. You’ll figure it out.”
A car drove down the street, the headlamps casting orange boxes of light along the wall as it passed.
I love you, Tobias almost said, but he was so tired that he couldn’t decide if he meant it for right now or for always. That itch was gone, and he was alone in his head for the first time in what seemed like months, and it’d been an emotional night. They’d known each other for two weeks. No one fell in love in only two weeks. Tomorrow the feeling might be gone, and then where would that leave Sullivan? So Tobias didn’t say it.
But he wanted to.
Part Two
Chapter Eighteen
If only the boy would fall into place, things would be moving along nicely.
Benjamin Spratt drove past the gate and into the underground parking garage. He parked in one of his two spots—the other he reserved for guests—and took the stairs up to the street level. He exchanged pleasantries when he caught his next-door neighbor leaving to walk her prize show poodle. The animal didn’t attempt to sniff at his crotch or whine for treats as they spoke, which he appreciated. He didn’t mind pets when they were civilized. A well-trained creature was a thing of beauty.
He let himself into his townhome and locked the door behind him before resetting the alarm. He believed it was important for the chief of the Denver Police—interim now, but permanently in a matter of weeks—to live in the heartbeat of the city. And you didn’t get more Denver than Capitol Hill, which meant there was the occasional bout of crime as the rougher element ming
led with the wealthy.
Spratt didn’t consider himself wealthy, despite the gleaming hardwood floors, fireplace, high ceilings or luxurious cream carpets. Those were perks, and unimportant ones at that. He enjoyed living well, both because it suited his position in the community and because it was pleasant, but he didn’t need any of these material possessions in order to feel powerful or accomplished.
Those feelings came from his work alone.
After setting his keys on the counter, he tilted his head to one side, listening.
The air was still. No hint of movement. No sound from the downstairs bedroom.
The boy would be hungry.
Spratt set about making dinner—a spinach and pear salad with a light vinaigrette, honey-and Dijon-seared salmon and roasted broccoli and turnips. He poured himself a glass of Riesling, and poured his guest some iced tea.
He would be thirsty, too. It’d been hours, unfortunately. Tidwell hadn’t been able to stop by for his afternoon visit; some problem with his daughter at the dentist’s.
Spratt hoped the boy hadn’t pissed himself again. He grimaced at the idea and prepared the tray, using glass plate covers so the food wouldn’t get cold. He carried the tray downstairs, where he set it on the small wooden armoire he’d moved to this spot for this very purpose. After unlocking the padlock, he pushed the door open carefully.
After the first altercation, he’d learned to be careful. The boy wasn’t prone to fits of panic, but when he did lose emotional control, he was a formidable animal. That struggle had ended with both of them the worse for wear, and while there’d been no sign of hostility since, Spratt wasn’t a stupid man.
But he needn’t have bothered. The closet was closed and locked, the little silver key on its hook beside the jamb. He opened the door and immediately stepped back, prepared for violence, but the boy was as he’d been left—sitting nude on the sheepskin pillow, hands cuffed above his head to the D ring set in the wall.
Ghost blinked in the sharp, sudden light pouring over Spratt’s shoulder from the bedroom.
He was breathtaking. The boy brought to mind the 1665 painting Girl with a Pearl Earring, by the Dutch painter Vermeer. They didn’t look much alike in shape or form, but it wasn’t his youth or his looks, not the pale, perfect skin or the golden hair or the pale green eyes, like tender shoots of new grass, that sparked the comparison. No, what Ghost and the girl in the painting shared was a heartbreaking, wounded innocence, an awareness of their own vulnerability.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” Spratt said. “Tidwell had a family issue arise and I couldn’t get away. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Can I use the bathroom?”
“May I,” Spratt corrected.
“May I?” There was no trace of sulking or sarcasm. Only a soft, perhaps sad, resignation. Spratt pursed his lips in defense of it.
“Of course. Wash up while you’re in there.”
“All right.”
Spratt unlocked the cuffs around the boy’s wrists, alert for any kicking, but Ghost waited until Spratt stepped back before climbing to his feet and vanishing into the bathroom. While the water ran and the toilet flushed, Spratt moved the dinner tray into the bedroom and set it on the floor.
Ghost emerged pink-cheeked and scrubbed, the ends of his shoulder-length hair dark with wetness from where it probably trailed into the sink while he’d washed his face. He wore his nudity with disinterest, a reminder of his oblique outlook on society and appropriate behavior, and while Spratt thought they might be on the verge of Ghost earning back some clothing, Spratt had already decided the garments would be of his own choosing. He didn’t approve of Ghost’s wardrobe, all too-tight shirts and torn jeans, everything fitted in such a way as to advertise the boy’s old profession.
“Come eat,” Spratt said, and Ghost sat on the floor before the tray.
After several bites, he said, “It’s very good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
It’d been some time ago now that they’d first met. Ghost had been fifteen, and it was pure happenchance that Spratt had been in the passenger seat of a patrol unit driving by as the drama unfolded. Spratt infrequently picked up shifts with his patrolmen and patrolwomen, less often with his detectives. He liked to keep his hand in, and besides, a strong presence from command did wonders for both morale and the precision of police work in his stations.
Unfortunately, even in policing, you found those callow individuals who were attracted to power and the abuse of it. That sort tended to behave better when they knew they were being watched. Spratt had keen eyes for that sort of thing.
He’d been on an impromptu ride-along when he saw the pale boy knocked clear off his feet by the attentions of a rough, far larger man in a black leather jacket. Spratt and his companion for the day had flashed their lights and stopped, and one brief struggle later, the rough man was in the back of the squad car, cursing in a mixture of Russian and English. The pale boy watched with a cautious, uncanny gaze, his shoulders set, his chin lifting in small degrees as Spratt approached. Spratt was windblown and out of breath, his lip bleeding from a lucky punch.
The boy trembled with fear.
“Are you all right?” Spratt asked, displeased by the bright red mark on the boy’s cheekbone. “Shall I call an ambulance? Is there someone who can take care of you?”
For a heartbeat the boy’s expression narrowed, as if he thought perhaps he was being made fun of, and then he dropped the act, his face tilting toward the ground. He meant to hide his expression, Spratt suspected, because it’d gone heavy and far too old for one so young.
The man was spitting foul language about the boy through the window, calling him words that should never be repeated in polite company, let alone directed at a child. The boy flinched from the vileness in that voice, and Spratt, without thinking, rested a light hand on his shoulder. He expected the boy’s second flinch, but what surprised him was the way the boy took a shy, almost secretive step closer, like he craved the shelter of Spratt’s company beyond the resisting of it.
“You’re safe,” Spratt murmured.
Later, at the station, wrapped in a blanket and drinking a cup of coffee—an inappropriate beverage for a child, but all the station had—Ghost explained the conflict. Krayev wanted to add him to his stable, Ghost had demurred, and the situation had escalated from there.
He’d arrested Vasily Krayev for assaulting not only Ghost—who’d refused to press charges—but Spratt as well, who had pressed charges. Thugs like Krayev didn’t belong on the streets. Spratt had not been dismayed to find that the meth dealer and occasional pimp had been murdered eight months ago.
Spratt had made promises to Ghost that day, about his safety and his future, promises that he’d since failed to keep, a situation that had, at times, haunted him. He didn’t like failing his citizens, particularly those who were exposed to the vagaries of the world and their own flawed conditioning.
Getting the boy into residential treatment hadn’t been difficult, as he’d apparently been there many times before, but keeping him on the straight and narrow when he wasn’t in custody was trickier.
The streets had their hooks in his boy.
“How was it?” he asked now, as Ghost put down his fork.
“Delicious. Thank you.”
Spratt nodded and began clearing the plates. He was on the verge of guiding the boy back into the closet when he said, “Please may I come upstairs?”
Spratt frowned. “Ghost...”
“I’ll be good,” the boy said hurriedly. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I know I’ve damaged your trust in me, and it’s—it’s unforgivable, what with everything you’ve done for me, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear, but I forget, sometimes, that I can trust you, and I do stupid things and try to leave. Not because I want to...it’s just...familiar.”
“
I will always come back for you,” Spratt said.
“I know that now. I should’ve had faith.”
Spratt considered him. “The closet is the safer place for you. You can’t get into trouble there.”
Ghost leaned away from the closet, a movement so slight that a less observant man would’ve missed it altogether. “Please. Let me stay with you. For a few minutes more at least. Please? I’ll be good.”
“You won’t try to leave?”
“I don’t want to leave you. Just the closet...it’s claustrophobic in there.”
“I imagine it is.” Spratt pursed his lips. The boy was incredibly slippery. He’d run from foster homes countless times, and reverted to the bad habits he’d picked up on the streets when given the opportunity. He might try to flee if Spratt allowed him out of the room. At the same time, though, Spratt didn’t care for leaving the boy in there indefinitely. It was far too much like captivity, and that wasn’t what this was about.
“All right,” Spratt agreed. “You’ve earned a bit of a break. You’ve been very well-behaved of late. Wait in your closet. I’ll lock the door and get you some clothes, and then you can come upstairs with me for a bit.”
“All right.”
After Ghost was secured, he took the tray upstairs and obtained some clothes for the boy, as well as his spare set of handcuffs. It would be easier to restrain Ghost within the closet against his will later this way, if necessary.
When Ghost was dressed and cuffed with his hands in front of him, he had Ghost lead the way upstairs. He encouraged the boy to sit on a stool at the island, then turned his attention to the dishes in the sink. The salmon had left a tough film on the skillet.
“Will you tell me a story?” Ghost asked. “About your day? Please?”
He was lonely. Of course he was. So Spratt talked about work for nearly an hour, telling the few stories he had which were child-appropriate.
By the time the clock read eleven and he was thinking of bed, Ghost was asking many questions, drawing the minutes out, his words rushing together as the seconds ticked by.