Negotiations 20
Go back to Negotiations 19 or start at the beginning.
Note: Hi, guys! I know it's been about 6 months since I updated. I lost two pets, gained two new ones, and the shop has been busy. Hope everyone is well. Also, I'm in the process of making all the fic in this journal public with the 'explicit' warning on it. It just seems like an easier way too go at this point. I'm starting with the oldest and working my way forward.
20
JUSTIN’S POV
Friday afternoon, 4:33 pm, NYC
Jon’s waiting room is empty when you arrive. You expected Brian to be done by four, and he hadn’t texted you yet. Jon’s practice is in a shared two bedroom townhouse in the city; the bottom floor entry way is populated with a variety of non-matching chairs and recent magazines. When the therapy room door opens, you’re halfway up the stairs, clutching your scarf and the railing, a pensive feeling in your veins. You smell new paint.
Only Jon emerges and hurriedly so, pushing his arms into his overcoat and coming down the stairs at an alarming clip until he spots you and stops. “Hey!” he says, sort of out of breath as his body lurches forward only to get pulled back, “We just finished; I’m sorry; I have to run. Mark just got back from London; I’ve gotta get home.”
You’re more or less blocking his path, so you get a moment to ask, “It went okay? Is Brian okay?”
In response, Jon gives you a doctorly smile, “Well, ‘okay’ is hard to quantify, but he did just put two and half hours into his own mental health, so that’s progress right? He’s upstairs; he’s waiting for you; he heard you on the stairs. Stay as long as you want. No other docs are here. Just lock up and text me, and I’ll set the alarm.”
You agree and let him pass, but you don’t want to. You want to walk him back upstairs and hear his clinical diagnosis of Brian’s affliction. Instead, you thank him and wave him off, and then finish climbing the staircase. The therapy room door is halfway open; tentatively, you approach and peek inside. Brian’s sitting at the far end of one of two sofas, his head resting on his hand. “Hey,” he says as he waves you in.
“Hey,” you offer. “How’d it go?” You can’t tell from his expression; it’s remarkably blank, but somehow he’s giving off a vulnerability you can’t quite quantify.
“It’s a bit like peeling your skin off after a bad sunburn,” Brian says.
“You feel raw?” you ask.
“Pretty much.” You sit on the opposite sofa, tossing your coat and scarf on the far end because Brian’s making no overtures about leaving. “How’d it go at the gallery?” he asks.
“Fine, fine. Everything’s ready for tonight.”
“Good.”
“Hard to focus, though,” you admit, “Because I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t need to be,” Brian says.
“It’s not your decision what I worry about.”
“True.”
“What you did was pretty fucked up, Brian.”
“I know, but I think I more or less got to the heart of it today.”
You exhale in relief, “Seriously? Care to elaborate?”
“Well, it doesn’t deserve like a drum roll or a parade or anything; it just turns out that I have a fairly acute and surprisingly commonplace fear of abandonment.”
“Keep going,” you say, sitting back and getting comfortable on the sofa.
“I’ll give you the cliff notes. My parents were maladapted creatures who hated each other. There was no love in our family, no actual bond. And because there was no love--”
“Fear grew instead,” you say.
“You’re very good. Maybe I should pay you the big bucks,” he laughs.
“Maybe you should because I’m the one that got you here, especially after this morning. You had three shots of whiskey before we left for the airport.”
“I had one here, too,” he admits.
“Brian!”
“Well, Jon keeps it in his desk; he offered.”
“So, I guess we’re not filing this witch doctor claim with our insurance,” you muse.
“Probably not. But anyway, I always thought and, frankly, was always told, that I have a fear of commitment, but I don’t. It’s abandonment.”
“I would actually agree with that.”
“You’re one of the only people who understood that about me, even before I did,” Brian admits.
“That’s why you love me,” you say with a smile.
“And why I’m so freaked out that I did this, and that I hid it from you.”
“Well, nobody knows you did it but you, me and now Jon and your dead mother, and if she was actually right all these years about having a first class ticket to heaven, you don’t need to stress about it because everybody up there is all about forgiveness.”
“Exactly, but I took this way too far, way too far, and before I say anything else, I want you to know that I told Jon about what we do...you know...the dungeon and stuff.”
“Brian!” you snapped for the second time. “What did you tell him?”
“He knows you like to be….spank--...across my lap.”
You glance around for a thick book you can throw at his head. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“It was pertinent, Justin. I swear. It came up organically.”
“I just saw him on the fucking stairs, Brian. Oh my god.” You hide your face in your hand.
“He’s heard much worse, trust me. Most of his patients aren’t even getting laid, you know, probably. So, just think how fortunate we are.”
“I hardly think that’s the point here, but whatever.”
“Think about it: I’m a control freak because of my fear of abandonment. You love my inner control freak. It makes you come all over yourself.”
“Did you bother to tell him that you’ve been pretty eager to submit as of late. That I’ve been fucking your brains out for a week, and you don’t just want it or tolerate it, you need it.”
“Yes!”
You shake your head at him and acquiesce, “Okay, well, at least he got both sides. Go on.”
Brian’s voice gets quieter, his brow furrows, “When Cynthia first started making noises about trying to have a baby, and then deciding to adopt, that’s the trigger; that’s when I started to go downhill.”
“That was like a year ago.”
“I know. It was kind of the last straw that then tied itself into a bitch of a knot. So, today, I basically figured out that Cynthia was a positive maternal figure in my life, that she took care of me, and the prospect of losing her was too much for me.”
You nod, “Understandable.”
“Yeah, and that it sent me in several directions at once. Into denial and avoidance at work, and into a dominant role with you which you just happen to really like, so I couldn’t see that I was using it as a coping skill.”
“If you’re saying that our sex life is amazing because Cynthia decided to start a family, I don’t like that. Our sex life is what it is because of us.”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with our sex life or its motivations. I’m saying that it’s so good that it allows me to hide things sometimes. I could very easily turn off my anxiety about Cynthia leaving on my ride home because you were waiting for me with a delicious dinner and a beautiful bare ass.”
“Okay.”
“Being in that role, taking care of you like that, it has wonderful side effects. It allows me to heal a part of myself that’s very broken, Justin.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“But as time passed and I knew I had to finally face the loss of Cynthia--”
“You fell apart. That’s why you asked me to come to work with you.”
“Right.”
“I can see it when we’re at work; all of your coping skills are fried, Brian. Very fried.”
“Simple things overwhelm me,” he adds, and now he seems sad, so you get off your sofa and go sit next to him on his; your hand on his shoulder. “So when Joan decided to fucking go and die on me--”
“And it’s all on you to deal with--”
“I quit. I just fucking quit.” There’s true regret woven in Brian’s face.
“It’s okay.”
“I couldn’t tell you because I wasn’t ready for this wave of emotion; I was terrified of it.”
Your fingers stroke the back of his neck, “Death is the ultimate abandonment, I guess.”
“Yeah, and in a way, it’s the best one, right? Because you finally get the answer you’ve been afraid to receive, and yet, I couldn’t receive it.”
“You did a lot in two and half hours, Brian. I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
You lean in and whisper, “I’m matronizing you.” He laughs; you turn his face toward yours and kiss him, just a sweet peck on the lips that he accepts. “We should probably go, get something to eat,” you offer.
“I'm not hungry.”
Moments pass and you get an idea, so you straddle Brian and suggest, “Well, we can stay here for a while.” You employ an unnecessary glance around the room as if confirming that the two of you are alone.
Brian plays delightfully dumb, “And do what?”
“Of course, if we stay too long, Jon will know something’s up because I’m supposed to text him when we’re gone so he can set the alarm.”
“Well, this is a therapy room. Will will be engaging in anything therapeutic?” he asks you.
You lean in right next to his ear and whisper, “Absolutely. What I’m about to do to you is only available by prescription.”
“What if you give it to me, and I get addicted to it?” Brian muses.
You hold his chin in your hand, “Oh, don’t worry; you already are.”
***********
As you exit Jon’s office in a post-coital fog, you and Brian decide to walk the six blocks to the hotel because the cold air feels like a chilled necessity forcing itself into your lungs. Your hand’s looped in Brian’s coated arm and as you stop before crossing a street, Brian turns to you and says, “Thanks for getting me to a doctor.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I sort of can’t believe that I just unloaded in there like that.”
“Well, believe it; it’s still in my ass.”
Brian tugs at your arm, rolling his eyes at you, “That was a euphemism for therapy, not sex.”
“Oh, well, see? It’s just what you needed, but don’t think shit like this is just cured in one long session.”
“I know, and it’s kind of like a conflict of interest because we’re friends with him, though,” he points out.
“It was an emergency, and you have a good rapport with him.”
“That’s a ‘Justin-ification.’”
“Well, Jon could’ve said no; he could’ve told us to go see someone else. He didn’t do that,” you remind him.
“He said you make him feel like a pediatrician when you call him about me.”
You turn to make eye contact with Brian before you spoke, “You were scaring the shit out of me, Brian, even before you told me about your mom. I knew something major was wrong; I probably sounded like a helicopter mommy because I felt like you needed one. You were having meltdowns over people’s lunch plans.”
“I know.”
You change the subject, “Maybe when we get back home, we can go to the cemetery and visit your mom’s grave?”
“Um, I don’t know if I can do that yet. Two more blocks to the hotel.”
“Does Debbie even know you lost your mom?”
“No. Just you and Clare and whoever reads Joan’s church bulletin.”
“See, that’s the thing, right there. You didn’t tell anybody because you didn’t want anybody to take care of you...not even for a day.” You stop on the sidewalk, and Brian turns and tries to pull you along, but you stay put and hug him instead. The two of you stand in the middle of the sidewalk amid random snowflakes and irritated pedestrians. Quietly, you say, “I’m going to go even if you don’t. She’s your mom, and I want to say goodbye.”
“You barely knew her,” Brian says.
“I know, but she made you, so she did something right.”
**************
BRIAN’S POV
Justin holds your hand in the elevator as you enter your hotel room. Something about his demeanor on the sidewalk moments earlier has already changed. He’s no longer hanging on your arm but rather leading the way back into your suite. You both shed your coats and scarves as Justin positions himself on the edge of the bed, a serious expression on his face as he goes through his phone. It’s lighting up like crazy. You flop down next to him and nudge him so you can rest your head in his lap. He smiles down at you and then goes back to reviewing his texts. “Sorry,” he says, his palm on your chest, “Clive just sent out a group text to all my regulars.”
“Public relations,” you say.
“Yep.”
His phone chimes on and off, faintly, as you glance at yours. You have nothing requiring immediate attention, so you curl up against him and slip your hand under his sweater. “There’s gonna be a decent crowd there tonight,” Justin says.
“It’s probably tripled because you’ll be there in person, right?”
Justin grins, “Yeah.” You feel a sense of pride as you watch him work.
“‘Cause one time you did a video conference thing, right?” you ask.
“Yeah, one year when I didn’t feel like doing the whole schmoozing thing, but my sales suffer when I do that.”
“They want to see you and your ass in person, I’m sure.”
“Like I care as long as they buy my work.”
“They’re gonna have food there right?”
“Wine, cheese, crackers and shit,” Justin says.
“I’m excited to go,” you tell him. “Do you care if I snooze for a bit? We have time, don’t we?”
Justin smiles down at you, “Yeah, we have time. A nap will do you good; you didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I know.”
“I might just run down to the restaurant and eat a little something; do you want me to bring you a snack?”
You yawn, “Yeah, sure. You know what I like.”
“Okay,” Justin says as he gets up and covers you with a blanket from the end of the bed. He leans down and deposits a perfunctory kiss on your lips, “Get some rest. I’ll wake you up in plenty of time.”
“Preesh.”
“I hate that word.”
“Sorry.”
Justin closes the curtains, stuffs his phone in his back pocket and seconds later you hear the door to the room close with a thud. You silent your phone and lay it face down beside you, close your eyes, and begin to drift away.
Somewhere halfway between sleep and wakefulness, your mind finds a parking place. You begin to flip through images of the last week, the last month, finding moments bathed in Velcro to cling to: the weird comfort of being forced to sit in a corner, a hooded Justin eating your ass, being told to clean up the mess he made in the dungeon. A need begins to break through the surface of your thoughts, pushing its way up like a sprout seeking sunlight: I want him. When he approaches you in your lucidity, you feel your body let go, your arms stretching like eternal branches to get to him, to hold him, a glow outlining his form. He’s the keeper of warmth; he owns it but he shares; he touches your skin and your blood flows faster.
“Fuck me.”
The timber of your own voice chafes at your grasp of this barely-there state and raises your head from the pillow; for a few seconds, you blink in confusion and deny your brain access to any wakefulness because he’s not a part of that. You tuck your head beneath the blanket and return to the welcoming light. He smiles when you come back to him; he agrees to the intimacy you crave, but he never touches you.
He just watches you lie on your back, your legs bent and spread, and you don’t understand how you can feel him inside you when he’s standing several feet away. Every thrust you feel shoves the pernicious heat further inside you; you reach out for him, feel the warmth intensify, and he smiles as he floats just out of reach.
‘You’re going to burn me up from the inside.’
‘I’m going to give you what you want,’ he says, his voice hollow.
‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘Yes, you do. You just didn’t expect a desire like this. I’m going to let it consume you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once you burn down, you’ll be able to rise again. It’s what you need.’
You beg this Justin to touch you when you start to come, but he continues to hover too far away. Your orgasm rips through you like a jagged knife. It hurts in the most wonderful way; your body contorts in response; you lose the ability to breathe on your own…
You wake up gasping and sweating; your hair plastered to your head. You expect to feel a wetness somewhere, but there’s nothing to evidence what you just felt. Outside the door of your room, you can hear Justin on the phone. His voice is muffled, but you can make out enough to hear the pitch rise as he says goodbye. You pant on the mattress, your blanket thrown aside as you listen for the lock to click open.
He moves like a thief in the semi-darkness, making sure to cushion the close of the door. There’s a brown paper bag with a logo on it swinging from his fingers. He moves carefully to the table by the window, sits the bag down and then begins to open the outer heavy curtain covering your view of the now darkened city.
“What did you bring me?” you ask.
His body jerks, “Jesus, you scared me, Brian. I thought I heard you snoring.” He sits beside you, turns the night stand lamp on and takes your appearance in. His hand brushes over your forehead, “Are you okay? You look like a fever just broke or something.”
“I think I was dreaming some crazy shit.”
He grins, “Ah, okay. I brought you….uh….some soup, a side salad, and a roll. You hungry?”
Your stomach feels like an empty cavern, “Yeah, actually I am. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“What did you eat?” you ask.
“Some chicken wrap appetizer things. They were okay.”
As he opens the lid of your soup, he hands it to you, “Potato soup. It was that or french onion.”
“Good call.” As you begin to devour it, you ask, “Who were you talking to?”
“A customer who just bought two of paintings before the show even opens.”
“Damn. How many does that leave?”
“Nine.”
“You’re gonna sell out, aren’t you?” you ask him.
“Probably,” he says with a wide grin, “With any luck.”
**************
There are men of every shape and size at Justin’s show and a handful of women. Normally, you’d be sorting the fuckables from the not-so-fuckables (even if it’s just a mind game), but that’s not your job tonight. You’ve been assigned by Justin to keep Oliver company at the wine bar.
“It’s a big step for him to able to attend a show,” Justin explains in the car on the way, “He works the bar because it gives him something to do, takes his mind off the anxiety.”
“So, I have to babysit him?”
“We just want you to sort of stay near him in case he gets this ‘deer in the headlights’ look. If that happens, tell him to go to Clive’s office, to get out of the room. You can work the bar if needed.”
“Does he take meds for this social anxiety shit?” you ask.
“Probably. He’s tried them all. And he should be good company; he’s extremely smart. You’ll like him.” Justin pats your thigh twice after saying this like you’re a good dog or something. You give him a sideways glance that he doesn’t even see.
“I sort of wanted to hang out with you, you know,” you offer in protest.
Justin turns, body and all, to face you and puts one hand on your forearm and reaches to put the other on the back of your neck; he pulls you down into a kiss that immediately makes you not want to get out of the car anytime soon. It’s a sticky kiss, one that takes umbrage upon ending. “That was hot,” you say quietly.
“Listen to me, okay, and don’t argue. I’m thrilled that you’re coming with me tonight, but...your alpha male presence is not invited. You know, like those times I go to business-couple dinners with you, and don’t make waves with your potential clients. Understood?”
“I wasn’t planning on fucking you in front of the appetizers,” you say.
“I know; I just want you to do what I say, and if you do, you won’t regret it.”
“Well, when you put it that way….”
Justin smiles and kisses you again, and this time it’s even stickier and his hand is wiggling it’s way under your shirt. You stop it and warn him, “You’re making me crazy; I’ll fuck you right here.”
“No, you won’t,” he dismisses, “But it’s cute that you think you can.” He has one leg outside on the sidewalk for that last line, and you have to send an urgent telegram to your dick to disarm immediately because it’s pretty much the height of alpha-maleness to walk into your partner’s art show with a brick in your pants.
……
Justin’s first in-person sale is to an old, fat, troll-like Manhattan fag. Justin thanks him with a hug and a few minutes of conversation. You admire how socially adept he is in this situation. When he bids the troll farewell, you think to yourself: he probably has a really early bedtime. While you’re making these observations, Oliver is chatting away at you, conversation you’re ignoring until you hear the word ‘therapy.’ You turn back toward him for clarification, “I’m sorry; what did you say?”
“That I’ve been in therapy for years. It really helped me.” It’s clear that he’s saying this to you to establish a bond, to let you know that he’s aware you had a session today.
“So you still go even though you’re...kind of...well, I mean...you seem pretty okay to me?”
Oliver smiles, “Yes, because it’s something I can rely on; it’s a place I know I can go to relieve my anxiety. It helps me cope with the panic knowing I have an outlet.”
“How many years?” you ask.
Oliver’s eyes flit away as he counts, “Fourteen, I think. A lot.”
“That’s a small fortune,” you say.
He nods, “Yes, but it’s more than worth it. Turning Clive into my defacto shrink was going to destroy our marriage.”
You keep a trained eye on Justin during this talk; he’s in the middle of the small cluster of women, pointing and gesturing away. He pulls his phone out at one point, and seconds later a text pops up on yours. You look down somewhat discreetly, ‘U good?’ it asks.
You reply, ‘Watching u work your magic.’
‘I meant what I said in the car.’
‘Counting on it.’
‘Meet me in the back bathroom in 5.’
“K’
It buzzes again, ‘You go first if Oli’s ok.’
You excuse yourself from Oliver, and head into the employees only section of the gallery where you wind your way through the metal shelving holding weird sculptures and past the canvases leaning against every bit of wall space. The restroom is single occupancy; you wait inside. In about two minutes, Justin enters and locks the door behind him; he says nothing; he just smiles and slings his arms around your neck as he stands on his tip toes. The damned kissing starts again, his tongue dancing like a serpent in your mouth. He grabs one of your hands and pushes it down his pants and moans, “Get me off.”
“Does anyone here know I’m your husband?” you ask at an odd moment.
“They all do. I told them you’re a little shy.”
You laugh and look down to make sure the bathroom floor is clean enough to kneel on. “It was just cleaned,” Justin says because he’s reading your mind. “Okay,” you say as you lower yourself and simultaneously push him against the wall; his pants come down quickly. Justin holds his cock out in front of your face, rubs it across your lips, “Don’t fuck around,” he warns, “I wanna come right now.”
At the end of that sentence, his cock is pressing against the back of your throat. You swallow all of him, your lips tight around the newly-shaven base of his cock. Justin cups your chin in his hand, his thumb rubbing your cheek. “I like it when you’re obedient,” he says. You moan in response. And then he takes one of your hands and pulls it to his ass, guiding it down to his asshole, but to your surprise, there’s something already there.
He’s wearing a plug.
You slip your finger beneath the disc-like base, feel how lubed his is, and slide your finger inside him right beside the toy. He yanks your hair and demands in a harsh whisper, “More.”
You bring your middle finger inside the base, and Justin gets very still as you insert it and stretch him, your fingers in a V formation. When he comes it’s desperately hushed and forceful; you curl your fingers a bit, teasing his prostate. You swallow every drop moments later and stand up watching as Justin clearly thinks this interaction is over, the haste with which he zips up giving it away. You pin him against the wall, “Let me fuck you, please. I’ll be quick.”
He refuses, “I’ve been gone too long.”
You put your face an inch from his, “That plug is an insult to your ass; you deserve better.”
He ignores your sales pitch, “I’ll go back first. If you need to jerk off, you can, but I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“You’re torturing me,” you complain.
“You should be flattered, not flustered.”
You whisper in defiance, “My cock is fucking aching.”
“Nobody ever died from that. I’ll see you out there,” Justin pauses, looks you up and down, and then continues, “And thank you for your services.”
Negotiations 21
Note: Hi, guys! I know it's been about 6 months since I updated. I lost two pets, gained two new ones, and the shop has been busy. Hope everyone is well. Also, I'm in the process of making all the fic in this journal public with the 'explicit' warning on it. It just seems like an easier way too go at this point. I'm starting with the oldest and working my way forward.
20
JUSTIN’S POV
Friday afternoon, 4:33 pm, NYC
Jon’s waiting room is empty when you arrive. You expected Brian to be done by four, and he hadn’t texted you yet. Jon’s practice is in a shared two bedroom townhouse in the city; the bottom floor entry way is populated with a variety of non-matching chairs and recent magazines. When the therapy room door opens, you’re halfway up the stairs, clutching your scarf and the railing, a pensive feeling in your veins. You smell new paint.
Only Jon emerges and hurriedly so, pushing his arms into his overcoat and coming down the stairs at an alarming clip until he spots you and stops. “Hey!” he says, sort of out of breath as his body lurches forward only to get pulled back, “We just finished; I’m sorry; I have to run. Mark just got back from London; I’ve gotta get home.”
You’re more or less blocking his path, so you get a moment to ask, “It went okay? Is Brian okay?”
In response, Jon gives you a doctorly smile, “Well, ‘okay’ is hard to quantify, but he did just put two and half hours into his own mental health, so that’s progress right? He’s upstairs; he’s waiting for you; he heard you on the stairs. Stay as long as you want. No other docs are here. Just lock up and text me, and I’ll set the alarm.”
You agree and let him pass, but you don’t want to. You want to walk him back upstairs and hear his clinical diagnosis of Brian’s affliction. Instead, you thank him and wave him off, and then finish climbing the staircase. The therapy room door is halfway open; tentatively, you approach and peek inside. Brian’s sitting at the far end of one of two sofas, his head resting on his hand. “Hey,” he says as he waves you in.
“Hey,” you offer. “How’d it go?” You can’t tell from his expression; it’s remarkably blank, but somehow he’s giving off a vulnerability you can’t quite quantify.
“It’s a bit like peeling your skin off after a bad sunburn,” Brian says.
“You feel raw?” you ask.
“Pretty much.” You sit on the opposite sofa, tossing your coat and scarf on the far end because Brian’s making no overtures about leaving. “How’d it go at the gallery?” he asks.
“Fine, fine. Everything’s ready for tonight.”
“Good.”
“Hard to focus, though,” you admit, “Because I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t need to be,” Brian says.
“It’s not your decision what I worry about.”
“True.”
“What you did was pretty fucked up, Brian.”
“I know, but I think I more or less got to the heart of it today.”
You exhale in relief, “Seriously? Care to elaborate?”
“Well, it doesn’t deserve like a drum roll or a parade or anything; it just turns out that I have a fairly acute and surprisingly commonplace fear of abandonment.”
“Keep going,” you say, sitting back and getting comfortable on the sofa.
“I’ll give you the cliff notes. My parents were maladapted creatures who hated each other. There was no love in our family, no actual bond. And because there was no love--”
“Fear grew instead,” you say.
“You’re very good. Maybe I should pay you the big bucks,” he laughs.
“Maybe you should because I’m the one that got you here, especially after this morning. You had three shots of whiskey before we left for the airport.”
“I had one here, too,” he admits.
“Brian!”
“Well, Jon keeps it in his desk; he offered.”
“So, I guess we’re not filing this witch doctor claim with our insurance,” you muse.
“Probably not. But anyway, I always thought and, frankly, was always told, that I have a fear of commitment, but I don’t. It’s abandonment.”
“I would actually agree with that.”
“You’re one of the only people who understood that about me, even before I did,” Brian admits.
“That’s why you love me,” you say with a smile.
“And why I’m so freaked out that I did this, and that I hid it from you.”
“Well, nobody knows you did it but you, me and now Jon and your dead mother, and if she was actually right all these years about having a first class ticket to heaven, you don’t need to stress about it because everybody up there is all about forgiveness.”
“Exactly, but I took this way too far, way too far, and before I say anything else, I want you to know that I told Jon about what we do...you know...the dungeon and stuff.”
“Brian!” you snapped for the second time. “What did you tell him?”
“He knows you like to be….spank--...across my lap.”
You glance around for a thick book you can throw at his head. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“It was pertinent, Justin. I swear. It came up organically.”
“I just saw him on the fucking stairs, Brian. Oh my god.” You hide your face in your hand.
“He’s heard much worse, trust me. Most of his patients aren’t even getting laid, you know, probably. So, just think how fortunate we are.”
“I hardly think that’s the point here, but whatever.”
“Think about it: I’m a control freak because of my fear of abandonment. You love my inner control freak. It makes you come all over yourself.”
“Did you bother to tell him that you’ve been pretty eager to submit as of late. That I’ve been fucking your brains out for a week, and you don’t just want it or tolerate it, you need it.”
“Yes!”
You shake your head at him and acquiesce, “Okay, well, at least he got both sides. Go on.”
Brian’s voice gets quieter, his brow furrows, “When Cynthia first started making noises about trying to have a baby, and then deciding to adopt, that’s the trigger; that’s when I started to go downhill.”
“That was like a year ago.”
“I know. It was kind of the last straw that then tied itself into a bitch of a knot. So, today, I basically figured out that Cynthia was a positive maternal figure in my life, that she took care of me, and the prospect of losing her was too much for me.”
You nod, “Understandable.”
“Yeah, and that it sent me in several directions at once. Into denial and avoidance at work, and into a dominant role with you which you just happen to really like, so I couldn’t see that I was using it as a coping skill.”
“If you’re saying that our sex life is amazing because Cynthia decided to start a family, I don’t like that. Our sex life is what it is because of us.”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with our sex life or its motivations. I’m saying that it’s so good that it allows me to hide things sometimes. I could very easily turn off my anxiety about Cynthia leaving on my ride home because you were waiting for me with a delicious dinner and a beautiful bare ass.”
“Okay.”
“Being in that role, taking care of you like that, it has wonderful side effects. It allows me to heal a part of myself that’s very broken, Justin.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“But as time passed and I knew I had to finally face the loss of Cynthia--”
“You fell apart. That’s why you asked me to come to work with you.”
“Right.”
“I can see it when we’re at work; all of your coping skills are fried, Brian. Very fried.”
“Simple things overwhelm me,” he adds, and now he seems sad, so you get off your sofa and go sit next to him on his; your hand on his shoulder. “So when Joan decided to fucking go and die on me--”
“And it’s all on you to deal with--”
“I quit. I just fucking quit.” There’s true regret woven in Brian’s face.
“It’s okay.”
“I couldn’t tell you because I wasn’t ready for this wave of emotion; I was terrified of it.”
Your fingers stroke the back of his neck, “Death is the ultimate abandonment, I guess.”
“Yeah, and in a way, it’s the best one, right? Because you finally get the answer you’ve been afraid to receive, and yet, I couldn’t receive it.”
“You did a lot in two and half hours, Brian. I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
You lean in and whisper, “I’m matronizing you.” He laughs; you turn his face toward yours and kiss him, just a sweet peck on the lips that he accepts. “We should probably go, get something to eat,” you offer.
“I'm not hungry.”
Moments pass and you get an idea, so you straddle Brian and suggest, “Well, we can stay here for a while.” You employ an unnecessary glance around the room as if confirming that the two of you are alone.
Brian plays delightfully dumb, “And do what?”
“Of course, if we stay too long, Jon will know something’s up because I’m supposed to text him when we’re gone so he can set the alarm.”
“Well, this is a therapy room. Will will be engaging in anything therapeutic?” he asks you.
You lean in right next to his ear and whisper, “Absolutely. What I’m about to do to you is only available by prescription.”
“What if you give it to me, and I get addicted to it?” Brian muses.
You hold his chin in your hand, “Oh, don’t worry; you already are.”
***********
As you exit Jon’s office in a post-coital fog, you and Brian decide to walk the six blocks to the hotel because the cold air feels like a chilled necessity forcing itself into your lungs. Your hand’s looped in Brian’s coated arm and as you stop before crossing a street, Brian turns to you and says, “Thanks for getting me to a doctor.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I sort of can’t believe that I just unloaded in there like that.”
“Well, believe it; it’s still in my ass.”
Brian tugs at your arm, rolling his eyes at you, “That was a euphemism for therapy, not sex.”
“Oh, well, see? It’s just what you needed, but don’t think shit like this is just cured in one long session.”
“I know, and it’s kind of like a conflict of interest because we’re friends with him, though,” he points out.
“It was an emergency, and you have a good rapport with him.”
“That’s a ‘Justin-ification.’”
“Well, Jon could’ve said no; he could’ve told us to go see someone else. He didn’t do that,” you remind him.
“He said you make him feel like a pediatrician when you call him about me.”
You turn to make eye contact with Brian before you spoke, “You were scaring the shit out of me, Brian, even before you told me about your mom. I knew something major was wrong; I probably sounded like a helicopter mommy because I felt like you needed one. You were having meltdowns over people’s lunch plans.”
“I know.”
You change the subject, “Maybe when we get back home, we can go to the cemetery and visit your mom’s grave?”
“Um, I don’t know if I can do that yet. Two more blocks to the hotel.”
“Does Debbie even know you lost your mom?”
“No. Just you and Clare and whoever reads Joan’s church bulletin.”
“See, that’s the thing, right there. You didn’t tell anybody because you didn’t want anybody to take care of you...not even for a day.” You stop on the sidewalk, and Brian turns and tries to pull you along, but you stay put and hug him instead. The two of you stand in the middle of the sidewalk amid random snowflakes and irritated pedestrians. Quietly, you say, “I’m going to go even if you don’t. She’s your mom, and I want to say goodbye.”
“You barely knew her,” Brian says.
“I know, but she made you, so she did something right.”
**************
BRIAN’S POV
Justin holds your hand in the elevator as you enter your hotel room. Something about his demeanor on the sidewalk moments earlier has already changed. He’s no longer hanging on your arm but rather leading the way back into your suite. You both shed your coats and scarves as Justin positions himself on the edge of the bed, a serious expression on his face as he goes through his phone. It’s lighting up like crazy. You flop down next to him and nudge him so you can rest your head in his lap. He smiles down at you and then goes back to reviewing his texts. “Sorry,” he says, his palm on your chest, “Clive just sent out a group text to all my regulars.”
“Public relations,” you say.
“Yep.”
His phone chimes on and off, faintly, as you glance at yours. You have nothing requiring immediate attention, so you curl up against him and slip your hand under his sweater. “There’s gonna be a decent crowd there tonight,” Justin says.
“It’s probably tripled because you’ll be there in person, right?”
Justin grins, “Yeah.” You feel a sense of pride as you watch him work.
“‘Cause one time you did a video conference thing, right?” you ask.
“Yeah, one year when I didn’t feel like doing the whole schmoozing thing, but my sales suffer when I do that.”
“They want to see you and your ass in person, I’m sure.”
“Like I care as long as they buy my work.”
“They’re gonna have food there right?”
“Wine, cheese, crackers and shit,” Justin says.
“I’m excited to go,” you tell him. “Do you care if I snooze for a bit? We have time, don’t we?”
Justin smiles down at you, “Yeah, we have time. A nap will do you good; you didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I know.”
“I might just run down to the restaurant and eat a little something; do you want me to bring you a snack?”
You yawn, “Yeah, sure. You know what I like.”
“Okay,” Justin says as he gets up and covers you with a blanket from the end of the bed. He leans down and deposits a perfunctory kiss on your lips, “Get some rest. I’ll wake you up in plenty of time.”
“Preesh.”
“I hate that word.”
“Sorry.”
Justin closes the curtains, stuffs his phone in his back pocket and seconds later you hear the door to the room close with a thud. You silent your phone and lay it face down beside you, close your eyes, and begin to drift away.
Somewhere halfway between sleep and wakefulness, your mind finds a parking place. You begin to flip through images of the last week, the last month, finding moments bathed in Velcro to cling to: the weird comfort of being forced to sit in a corner, a hooded Justin eating your ass, being told to clean up the mess he made in the dungeon. A need begins to break through the surface of your thoughts, pushing its way up like a sprout seeking sunlight: I want him. When he approaches you in your lucidity, you feel your body let go, your arms stretching like eternal branches to get to him, to hold him, a glow outlining his form. He’s the keeper of warmth; he owns it but he shares; he touches your skin and your blood flows faster.
“Fuck me.”
The timber of your own voice chafes at your grasp of this barely-there state and raises your head from the pillow; for a few seconds, you blink in confusion and deny your brain access to any wakefulness because he’s not a part of that. You tuck your head beneath the blanket and return to the welcoming light. He smiles when you come back to him; he agrees to the intimacy you crave, but he never touches you.
He just watches you lie on your back, your legs bent and spread, and you don’t understand how you can feel him inside you when he’s standing several feet away. Every thrust you feel shoves the pernicious heat further inside you; you reach out for him, feel the warmth intensify, and he smiles as he floats just out of reach.
‘You’re going to burn me up from the inside.’
‘I’m going to give you what you want,’ he says, his voice hollow.
‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘Yes, you do. You just didn’t expect a desire like this. I’m going to let it consume you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once you burn down, you’ll be able to rise again. It’s what you need.’
You beg this Justin to touch you when you start to come, but he continues to hover too far away. Your orgasm rips through you like a jagged knife. It hurts in the most wonderful way; your body contorts in response; you lose the ability to breathe on your own…
You wake up gasping and sweating; your hair plastered to your head. You expect to feel a wetness somewhere, but there’s nothing to evidence what you just felt. Outside the door of your room, you can hear Justin on the phone. His voice is muffled, but you can make out enough to hear the pitch rise as he says goodbye. You pant on the mattress, your blanket thrown aside as you listen for the lock to click open.
He moves like a thief in the semi-darkness, making sure to cushion the close of the door. There’s a brown paper bag with a logo on it swinging from his fingers. He moves carefully to the table by the window, sits the bag down and then begins to open the outer heavy curtain covering your view of the now darkened city.
“What did you bring me?” you ask.
His body jerks, “Jesus, you scared me, Brian. I thought I heard you snoring.” He sits beside you, turns the night stand lamp on and takes your appearance in. His hand brushes over your forehead, “Are you okay? You look like a fever just broke or something.”
“I think I was dreaming some crazy shit.”
He grins, “Ah, okay. I brought you….uh….some soup, a side salad, and a roll. You hungry?”
Your stomach feels like an empty cavern, “Yeah, actually I am. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“What did you eat?” you ask.
“Some chicken wrap appetizer things. They were okay.”
As he opens the lid of your soup, he hands it to you, “Potato soup. It was that or french onion.”
“Good call.” As you begin to devour it, you ask, “Who were you talking to?”
“A customer who just bought two of paintings before the show even opens.”
“Damn. How many does that leave?”
“Nine.”
“You’re gonna sell out, aren’t you?” you ask him.
“Probably,” he says with a wide grin, “With any luck.”
**************
There are men of every shape and size at Justin’s show and a handful of women. Normally, you’d be sorting the fuckables from the not-so-fuckables (even if it’s just a mind game), but that’s not your job tonight. You’ve been assigned by Justin to keep Oliver company at the wine bar.
“It’s a big step for him to able to attend a show,” Justin explains in the car on the way, “He works the bar because it gives him something to do, takes his mind off the anxiety.”
“So, I have to babysit him?”
“We just want you to sort of stay near him in case he gets this ‘deer in the headlights’ look. If that happens, tell him to go to Clive’s office, to get out of the room. You can work the bar if needed.”
“Does he take meds for this social anxiety shit?” you ask.
“Probably. He’s tried them all. And he should be good company; he’s extremely smart. You’ll like him.” Justin pats your thigh twice after saying this like you’re a good dog or something. You give him a sideways glance that he doesn’t even see.
“I sort of wanted to hang out with you, you know,” you offer in protest.
Justin turns, body and all, to face you and puts one hand on your forearm and reaches to put the other on the back of your neck; he pulls you down into a kiss that immediately makes you not want to get out of the car anytime soon. It’s a sticky kiss, one that takes umbrage upon ending. “That was hot,” you say quietly.
“Listen to me, okay, and don’t argue. I’m thrilled that you’re coming with me tonight, but...your alpha male presence is not invited. You know, like those times I go to business-couple dinners with you, and don’t make waves with your potential clients. Understood?”
“I wasn’t planning on fucking you in front of the appetizers,” you say.
“I know; I just want you to do what I say, and if you do, you won’t regret it.”
“Well, when you put it that way….”
Justin smiles and kisses you again, and this time it’s even stickier and his hand is wiggling it’s way under your shirt. You stop it and warn him, “You’re making me crazy; I’ll fuck you right here.”
“No, you won’t,” he dismisses, “But it’s cute that you think you can.” He has one leg outside on the sidewalk for that last line, and you have to send an urgent telegram to your dick to disarm immediately because it’s pretty much the height of alpha-maleness to walk into your partner’s art show with a brick in your pants.
……
Justin’s first in-person sale is to an old, fat, troll-like Manhattan fag. Justin thanks him with a hug and a few minutes of conversation. You admire how socially adept he is in this situation. When he bids the troll farewell, you think to yourself: he probably has a really early bedtime. While you’re making these observations, Oliver is chatting away at you, conversation you’re ignoring until you hear the word ‘therapy.’ You turn back toward him for clarification, “I’m sorry; what did you say?”
“That I’ve been in therapy for years. It really helped me.” It’s clear that he’s saying this to you to establish a bond, to let you know that he’s aware you had a session today.
“So you still go even though you’re...kind of...well, I mean...you seem pretty okay to me?”
Oliver smiles, “Yes, because it’s something I can rely on; it’s a place I know I can go to relieve my anxiety. It helps me cope with the panic knowing I have an outlet.”
“How many years?” you ask.
Oliver’s eyes flit away as he counts, “Fourteen, I think. A lot.”
“That’s a small fortune,” you say.
He nods, “Yes, but it’s more than worth it. Turning Clive into my defacto shrink was going to destroy our marriage.”
You keep a trained eye on Justin during this talk; he’s in the middle of the small cluster of women, pointing and gesturing away. He pulls his phone out at one point, and seconds later a text pops up on yours. You look down somewhat discreetly, ‘U good?’ it asks.
You reply, ‘Watching u work your magic.’
‘I meant what I said in the car.’
‘Counting on it.’
‘Meet me in the back bathroom in 5.’
“K’
It buzzes again, ‘You go first if Oli’s ok.’
You excuse yourself from Oliver, and head into the employees only section of the gallery where you wind your way through the metal shelving holding weird sculptures and past the canvases leaning against every bit of wall space. The restroom is single occupancy; you wait inside. In about two minutes, Justin enters and locks the door behind him; he says nothing; he just smiles and slings his arms around your neck as he stands on his tip toes. The damned kissing starts again, his tongue dancing like a serpent in your mouth. He grabs one of your hands and pushes it down his pants and moans, “Get me off.”
“Does anyone here know I’m your husband?” you ask at an odd moment.
“They all do. I told them you’re a little shy.”
You laugh and look down to make sure the bathroom floor is clean enough to kneel on. “It was just cleaned,” Justin says because he’s reading your mind. “Okay,” you say as you lower yourself and simultaneously push him against the wall; his pants come down quickly. Justin holds his cock out in front of your face, rubs it across your lips, “Don’t fuck around,” he warns, “I wanna come right now.”
At the end of that sentence, his cock is pressing against the back of your throat. You swallow all of him, your lips tight around the newly-shaven base of his cock. Justin cups your chin in his hand, his thumb rubbing your cheek. “I like it when you’re obedient,” he says. You moan in response. And then he takes one of your hands and pulls it to his ass, guiding it down to his asshole, but to your surprise, there’s something already there.
He’s wearing a plug.
You slip your finger beneath the disc-like base, feel how lubed his is, and slide your finger inside him right beside the toy. He yanks your hair and demands in a harsh whisper, “More.”
You bring your middle finger inside the base, and Justin gets very still as you insert it and stretch him, your fingers in a V formation. When he comes it’s desperately hushed and forceful; you curl your fingers a bit, teasing his prostate. You swallow every drop moments later and stand up watching as Justin clearly thinks this interaction is over, the haste with which he zips up giving it away. You pin him against the wall, “Let me fuck you, please. I’ll be quick.”
He refuses, “I’ve been gone too long.”
You put your face an inch from his, “That plug is an insult to your ass; you deserve better.”
He ignores your sales pitch, “I’ll go back first. If you need to jerk off, you can, but I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“You’re torturing me,” you complain.
“You should be flattered, not flustered.”
You whisper in defiance, “My cock is fucking aching.”
“Nobody ever died from that. I’ll see you out there,” Justin pauses, looks you up and down, and then continues, “And thank you for your services.”
Negotiations 21