Velvet Need

by Sean Michael

  He stood up, frowning. “I don't know. I'm tired."

  "He's not moving in, my dear. Only coming for a short visit.” The soft laughter echoed off the tiles.

  "You're getting close to laughing at me, now.” He sighed. He just felt ... he didn't know if he remembered how to be himself.

  Bertoli hummed softly, fingers sliding on Dent's skin. “I would never laugh at you, my dear. And don't change the subject. He's coming."

  "I'm not ready to be social. What if he thinks I'm different?"

  "You are ready. And you are different.” Bertoli leaned close. “I've even heard you laugh."

  "I don't want him to think it changed me.” He stepped closer still, arms wrapping around Bertoli's waist.

  Bertoli chuckled. “We'll tell him it was me who changed you."

  He swatted Bertoli's ass, shaking his head. “You changed me long before they did."

  Bertoli just laughed. “You see? You have nothing to worry about.” He wrapped a towel around Dent's shoulders and took his hand, leading him back to the bedroom. “He'll be here in five minutes."

  "You could have given me a little more warning, you know."

  "Why? So you would have more time to fret about it? I thought five minutes was more than sufficient for that."

  "I don't fret.” He ... considered.

  That had Bertoli laughing again. “You don't?"

  A pair of soft pants were pulled out of a drawer, a matching silk shirt joining it on the bed.

  "No. I don't.” He pulled the clothes on, wincing at the way they hung off him. He hadn't looked at himself at all in the mirror.

  Bertoli slipped on a simple pair of scrubs, all in white. “I'm still skinnier than you,” he told Dent, winking.

  "Yes, and you're balder.” Dent headed into the living area, trying not to pace, to growl.

  The laughter followed him, cut short at the knock on the door. “There you go. Do you want to get it?"

  "No.” He went to the door, though, heart pounding as he headed for the lock. What if it wasn't Herc? What if it was them? What if...

  Dent froze, standing before the door.

  Bertoli came to stand behind him, body warm, solid despite Bertoli's gauntness. Warm hands slid along his arms. “Ask who's there."

  His lips opened, but nothing came out, his entire body tremoring. “Wh ... wh ... wh...” He started shaking his head. No. No, he was losing it. “Who. Who is it?"

  "Dent? It's Hercules."

  Bertoli's hands squeezed his arms. “So strong, my dear. You can do this. Let him in."

  He managed to hit the door lock, every muscle in him tight and hard, almost burning. Bertoli reached past him and turned the handle, slowly opening the door and simultaneously moving him back, several steps away. He moved with Bertoli, trusting those hands, trusting that Bertoli would kill anyone who tried to hurt them.

  By the time Hercules came in, the door closing behind the tall form dressed in purple, Bertoli was standing next to Dent, an arm casually around his waist. “Hercules! Welcome, welcome.” Bertoli giggled softly.

  His throat was dry as dust, but he found a smile, managed a nod. God, he should be ashamed of himself, panicking like a child. “Herc."

  Hercules smiled and held out a hand. “Dent. Old friend. It's so good to see you."

  "Thank you.” He shook Herc's hand, forcing himself to act normally, to act like ... who he used to be. “Come and sit, old friend. How's business?"

  He could feel Bertoli's quiet pride in him as they made their way to the living room and sat, Hercules choosing the large winged chair, Bertoli sitting with him on the couch.

  "Oh, I can't complain. Mal and Kes take care of everything and the money keeps rolling in. Some days I feel that perhaps I'm not needed, but then I remember someone has to count the money.” Hercules winked, then sobered. “And you, Dent? Lutrell has kept us abreast of your progress in broad terms, but I had to come see for myself how you were."

  "I'm recovering. Glad to be back.” If he just remembered to breathe, he'd be fine.

  "You're almost as gaunt as your lover,” Hercules noted and it was strange, to hear someone refer to Bertoli as his lover.

  "Am I?” What was he supposed to say to that? He'd been beaten and starved. He just wanted to sleep. “I suppose that's to be expected."

  "It can be quite a shock,” murmured Bertoli. “For someone who has not seen you every day."

  "Indeed.” Hercules nodded, dark purple hair sliding over his shoulders. “I have greetings from many people for you, Dent."

  "Thank you. Tell everyone I appreciate them, their thoughts.” He met Herc's eyes, forcing himself. “I'm not prepared to speak to anyone else right now, but I am appreciative."

  "I will pass that on.” Hercules smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “I was very pleased when Lutrell agreed that I could come and visit. You are much missed, old friend."

  "I know.” He missed himself, his courage. “What is happening in the world, Herc?"

  Hercules shrugged. “The more time passes, the more things remain the same. There is talk of the war to the east coming closer, but I'm sure it will not—such rumors never come to fruition. There was a bit of a scandal in the stock market when your kidnapping and safe return became public, but it has settled."

  Bertoli's fingers were at his waist, stroking softly as Hercules continued on about things he couldn't remember and didn't really care about. He nodded idly, growing more and more exhausted, more and more tense as time passed.

  It was Bertoli, so attuned to him, who suggested that perhaps Hercules had stayed long enough. Dent could not remember anyone ever telling Hercules what to do, but that certainly didn't stop his lover.

  "Thank you for coming,” Bertoli said. “I think we've both enjoyed seeing a new face for a time."

  He stood, hand held out. “Come again, please? Another day?"

  Hercules smiled warmly. “Thank you, Dent. It has been my pleasure and I would be glad to return. Or perhaps have you as a guest in my suite?"

  Panic flooded him, sharp and harsh as icy water and it was all he could do not to pull away. “Soon, I hope."

  "I would like that very much. I can see myself out if you like, Lutrell."

  Bertoli laughed softly. “Nonsense, Hercules. We wouldn't dream of it."

  His waist was given a soft squeeze; Bertoli knew that he needed to see Hercules leave for himself, needed to see the door lock turned back on.

  He did see Hercules out, making all the required noises and nods, until the door closed and locked. Then he turned, bolting for the bathroom as his stomach roiled.

  Bertoli was there when he stopped retching, a cool cloth passing over his forehead, a glass of clear water pressed to his lips. His lover's quiet strength there for him to lean on.

  "I'm sorry.” He was so tired of being weak.

  "The only one you have disappointed is yourself, my dear.” Bertoli began to tug on his clothes, the man already having removed his own.

  "I hate this. I hate being weak."

  "You see weakness and I see strength. Your mind is protecting you until you are able to deal with life.” A kiss dropped onto the back of his neck. “Come with me, my dear. We'll go and distract ourselves for a while. I am itching for our ritual."

  "I...” For the first time, he reached for Bertoli's hand. The pleasure the simple act put on Bertoli's face made it worth every effort.

  He didn't think, didn't worry, just watched his lover as they moved together into the room with the table. The pleasure Bertoli took from each moment they spent together was obvious both in his face and the soft laughter and humming. Bertoli was not one to hide his emotions.

  He lay down and Bertoli stroked a hand along his arm. “We will try the cuffs again, my dear."

  "Why? I'll be still.” It was an honest question. He wouldn't fight Bertoli.

  Bertoli tilted his head. “Because it is a part of the ritual. A part I am willing to discuss disposing of at a later d
ate. For now, I believe you need to be restrained, knowing you have to but say one word and you will be released."

  "I trust you. I just...” He knew it wasn't logical. Knew it. “What if they come? What if they come and I can't move?"

  "If they come, you will say nightlight and I will uncuff you and then you can move.” Trust Bertoli to find a logical answer to his illogical fear.

  He twined their fingers together, holding on, trying to relax, to trust, to believe.

  Bertoli brought their joined hands up to his mouth, kissing Dent's knuckles. “We will begin as we always do. Cuffs first, cleaning second."

  The long fingers slid away from his, and then the first cuff was attached to his wrist, Bertoli touching him all the while. His heart started pounding and he fought it, fought the panic and the pure fear with all he was.

  Bertoli murmured softly, talking though he couldn't hear the words, just the sound of them like a lifeline as his other wrist was tied down.

  "I ... Bertoli. I don't ... I don't think I can.” He couldn't stop himself from pulling, from fighting the cuffs.

  A soft chuckle filled the air. “You never do."

  Bertoli's fingers moved over his chest and stopped to circle his navel before continuing down along his hips and then his right leg. That ankle was cuffed without ceremony, leaving only his left leg mobile.

  "Don't.” He looked at the cuff on his arm, willing it to open, to set him free. “Let me go. Let me go."

  "Not yet, my dear.” His other leg was cuffed and he was well and truly tied down, caught, Bertoli's fingers sliding on his skin. “Are you ready for how we begin? To be cleaned?"

  He couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. He stared at Bertoli, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

  Bertoli smiled kindly down at him. “You're doing so well. Such strength."

  His belly was stroked and then Bertoli turned away, getting the familiar metal bowl from the shelves. Dent closed his eyes, sinking into himself, hiding away from the memories, the fear and panic. He could do this. He could cope.

  Soft laughter sounded, followed by the slow glide of a warm, wet cloth over his skin. The laughter and touch were so familiar, belonging only to Bertoli. He didn't respond. He couldn't, not without panicking. He simply had to trust that Bertoli understood.

  "This is one of my favorite things,” murmured Bertoli. “Your skin fascinates me, the way it responds to my touches.” He giggled softly. “And I might have a bit of a thing for cleanliness. But then I am a surgeon after all."

  "Wh ... what kind of surgeon?” He bit the words out, trying so hard, wanting to be strong so badly.

  "I specialized in emergency surgery to begin with, and then open heart surgery.” Bertoli laughed. “You remember I once asked you if you liked what you did and you said no? And I knew that was one of the reasons you didn't laugh with your joy? Well, I never laughed. Not once since I had passed my exams and begun the long, stressful hours that finished my training.” The cloth teased around his nipples and then over them, coming back to rub against them once more. “A life with no laughter ... it is not right."

  "I just wanted to be successful."

  "You just needed to change your definition of what successful means,” countered Bertoli, cloth wrapping around his cock and sliding up it.

  He shifted as much as he could, trying to escape the touch. He didn't want to think about the fact that he wasn't hard.

  "Just lie still, my dear, and feel."

  The touch was repeated twice more and then the cloth slid along his balls, behind them.

  "I don't ... I hate that it doesn't, that I can't."

  The cloth carefully slid over his opening, pushed in a tiny bit, and then Bertoli's cleaning moved to his legs. “Why can't you?"

  "Because I can't ... it doesn't work.” He hadn't been able to since...

  "I admit I've assumed that it has been because you didn't want to, because you weren't ready.” Bertoli moved back up to stand close, looking down into his eyes. “But now you want to and cannot?"

  "It won't. I can't.” He simply couldn't.

  "But do you want to, my dear? That is the question."

  "Who wouldn't want to?” He just wanted his life back.

  Bertoli chuckled. “Just checking, my dear. Before, I spoke of having the doctor here to examine you. We need to be sure that there is no physical impediment to your arousal before we begin work on other possibilities."

  "No. I don't want anyone touching me.” His eyes flew open, the panic finding him.

  "All right. Just hold on a moment and let me finish this. I do not want to talk about this here. There is no place in this space for what was done to you.” Bertoli put the bowl in the sink and grabbed some alcohol swabs, sliding them quickly, but carefully over his skin, finishing the ritual.

  Bertoli's words relaxed him, eased him somehow. Every time his lover proved that he was being heard, listened to, it soothed something deep inside him.

  When his skin had been touched everywhere, was cool and tight and clean and Bertoli's, he was kissed and the cuffs undone.

  "Come, my dear. We need to talk."

  "I did it.” He met those pale eyes as he sat. He'd survived the cuffs. He had.

  Bertoli stopped and smiled, fingers coming out to cup his cheeks. “Yes. You did, didn't you?” The laugh was happy, the lips that pressed to his warm and passionate. That laugh? Was not mocking, was not directed at him. That laugh was for him.

  Dent pushed into the kiss, enjoying the heat, the care there. Bertoli's arms wrapped around him, the kiss deepening before their lips slowly parted.

  "I told you you could do it."

  "Will it ever feel good again? Feel exciting?” It was the closest he'd ever come to admitting that he craved the sensations Lutrell offered him, that he wanted them as much as he needed them.

  "Yes.” The answer was simple, Bertoli's voice confident, sure, and Dent knew that meant Bertoli would not give up.

  He nodded, satisfied with that answer. For now.

  His hand was taken, Bertoli leading him once again into the living room, to the big couch. It seemed to be his life now, being led from one room to another, his lover's hand wrapped around his. It was insane. Honestly.

  Necessary, but insane.

  Bertoli sat and tugged him close. “My dear, as you brought up the subject earlier, we should talk."

  "What do you want to know?” He pulled the blankets around him, cuddling beneath them.

  "I would like to know what happened to you that makes it impossible for you to get an erection. If it is something physical, it could be quite easy to correct. However I suspect it is not a physical issue."

  "I'm not a doctor. I don't know.” He could see the arc of electricity they'd tortured him with, bright blue and crackling, right behind his eyelids, could smell his skin burning.

  "But you know what they did to you."

  "I ... You know. You saw me."

  Bertoli sighed. “I know you were hurt. I can guess at what was done. But no, I do not know.” His face was stroked, turned up so the pale eyes could look into his own. “You must tell me."

  "I don't want to think about it. I don't want to dwell on it."

  "I'm sorry, my dear, but that plainly isn't working."

  "There's nothing to tell. They hurt me. I survived."

  "But if I don't know what was done to your penis, I can't possibly know what to look for, to see if this is a physical problem. There is also the reality that the best way to defeat your demons is to face them, not pretend they aren't there. You know how I feel about hiding."

  "They had a ... electric blade? They burned me.” See him. See him be practical.

  "On the outside only, or the inside as well?” Bertoli's voice was very neutral.

  He stood up, kept the blanket and started pacing. “I don't remember. I think just the outside. I think. I don't. Just the outside."

  "Well, I can tell you that the outside has healed, the swelling is gon
e. Unless they did something inside, then there is no physical reason for you to be unable to have erections. Which means the problem is not physical. This makes a lot of sense, my dear. You were tortured, and that often leaves far more psychological scars than physical ones."

  He could feel Bertoli's eyes on him, watching him as he moved.

  Well, that made sense. He had been broken. It happened. He just needed to deal with that, cope. “I'm tired. I'm going to take a nap."

  "No.” Bertoli stood and came to him, cupped his face in warm hands. “I want you to tell me one more thing. And then you may nap."

  "What?"

  "We have been dancing around what happened to you, letting you sleep, letting you nap. You are strong enough to start facing the truth. You will only move on if you start facing the truth.” Bertoli took a breath. “Tell me one thing that happened to you that you do not want to tell me."

  "I...” His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “They ... I ... I begged. I begged them to stop."

  "Of course you did. You didn't want them to keep hurting you. There is no shame in that, my dear. It was the act of a sane, hurting man."

  "It doesn't feel sane."

  "Because they were not sane. The situation was not sane. And so reacting in a sane manner felt ... useless, insane.” Bertoli kissed him suddenly. “You wanted them to stop and so you begged them to—how can you be ashamed of that?"

  "Because I am. Because they broke me. I'm going to bed. You said one question."

  "I said I wanted you to tell me one thing, I said nothing of questions.” Bertoli sighed suddenly, arm going around his waist, supporting him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to badger you. You've done very well today—faced so much. Hercules, the cuffs, admitting what they did to you, your begging. I am proud of you, Dent. Of the fact that you survived and that you are working to get better."

  He opened his mouth, then just stepped closer, held on.

  "Oh. My dear.” Bertoli's arms went around him, held on just as tight as he did. “I have you now. You're home. Everything else is details."

  "Yes. I know.” He did. He knew. If only it made a difference.

  Bertoli kissed him. “We'll get you back, my dear. I am not letting you go."