Bunny Ch. 14

If you haven't read part 13, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I revel in my quiet rebellion. It had begun inadvertently; my morning tutor had recently moved to Ohio, and Mr. Hale had indulgently asked me what I wanted to study next. Ordinarily I would have continued with English literature, but what I told him was, "I would like to resume French, please, in order to read L'Histoire d'O in its original form."

A student from the local university, a French girl from the Loire Valley, was hired to teach me to read, speak, and write in French. Though my reading and writing skills progressed rather slowly, my speaking ability is, as Elodie claims, "almost adequate." I learned that she was rather homesick, and was eager to converse with anyone in her native tongue. On my way to the new coffee shop I practice on my own: "Salut, mon ami. Ça gaze? Tu me manques."

Hey, friend. How's it going? I miss you.

Lance Oliver Jordan 2

"I don't think I'm gay, sir" says my chickenshit secretary as he places coffee on my desk.

Watching Him Back Ch. 4.1

I honestly thought I was finished with this bit, but when I went to post it on Lit I realized that there were a lot of major flaws in the story. So I'm posting as I rewrite.

"You know," Crispin muses, "I think maybe Jay has a crush on LeAndre."

"Quit talking shit." Someone stuck gum on the underside of this desk.

"No, I'm serious," he insists, rummaging in a drawer. "I'm not saying he's gay, just maybe that he has a crush. Like, elementary school style."

I grab the trash can and the scraper from my bag of detention tools. "Come on. Being a homophobe doesn't automatically make him closeted."

"Duh, but look at their relationship. Let's call it a friend crush, or a bro crush. I think Jay really, really wants LeAndre to like him."

"Everybody really wants LeAndre to like them," I reply. "He's the kind of guy who's popular because he's smart and nice to people."

"And hot and good at everything," Crispin adds.

"Right." I stand to stretch my back. "Ugh, I hate this so much."

Crispin comes around the desk. "Sorry, pumpkin," he says cajolingly.

"Don't you 'sorry, pumpkin,' me," I fake growl. "This was your fault."

"Heeeey, queer burger." Jay's voice startles me as he pops around the corner.

Sandalwood Ch. 3

The last time I'd seen that expression I had put my hands on the sides of his ribcage and pressed him against the wall. I remembered how I'd kissed him until we were breathless. I remember he had sighed with resignation and how his arms crept around my back to pull me close. Moreover, I remembered how much I had liked it.

There's a Beast In My Basement

There is a beast in my basement. He stays in chains without complaint; I think he knows the damage he could do. Does he have a conscience. I’m not sure. He does as I bid, and I bid him often. Come here, Beast, and lick my bones lest I rot for lack of touch. His tongue slides on skin and skin sizzles for his tongue. I don’t close my eyes, I watch him as he obeys with simmering anger.

He doesn’t like me. That’s okay, I think when his head lies heavy in my lap. He must have loved someone else, once. I want to know, I don’t want to know on whom he turned his amber eyes with kindness. Don’t give me that kindness; it comes battered and broken and pain fills the cracks like ice to split it all open. His hands are rough on my body. He turns me over like a bear might flip a rock in search of grubs. I turn too far and his rough hands hold me down.

Stay there.

The beast never speaks. I’ll take his uh ugh uhn ugh instead, the hah at the base of each thrust. He could split me open. It’s a test: Does he leave me to my screams, or will our fucking sound schlick schlick schlick through the empty room? The pop of a cap and something cool smeared on me preludes the pull of fingers. I want to teach him these words so he can tell me. “Your asshole is twitching at me. You cock-hungry whore. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll regret ever shaking it at me.” Yes, yes, fuck yes, I’d gasp in return, and come all over him. And he’d come inside me and throw me away, and all day long I would feel him slip out little by little.

“Ah. Ow!” Every time, and he never stops. In and in and in and in and out a bit and in in in fuck fuck oh god yes yes ugh holy fuck. His hands bruise my shoulders, to hold me so that his cock doesn’t send me flying across the room. Someday those rough fingertips will slide inward and up, to tighten on my throat while he finally roars his release in my blackest depths. He’ll find the key in my jeans pocket and walk out, leaving me to be discovered by someone else.

Maybe today, maybe today, but he pulls out and schlick schlick shlick his hand is moving fast. He grabs my hair and stands over me, glowering, and then I have to close my eyes. He’s so hot; burning as he splatters all over my face.

I see his true self only when he sleeps. The biggest beast I’ve beheld, breathing evenly through blackest nose. The tails—how many? Seven, at the least. He mutters in a language I can’t understand, but I wish I could tell if it’s a name he repeats.

Bunny Ch. 13

If you haven't read part 12, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

A week passes, then two, and every day I curse the boy in the mirror whose spine is missing.

In stories and what I remember of films, character development jumps after a major crisis. A resolution is made and a revolution occurs. Were this not my life, I would have walked out on Mr. Hale within a week of the incident, or Brandon would have stormed the house and whisked me away for a happily-ever-after. It should have been my breaking point, when I said to myself, "Anything is better than this," and shook the dust from my shoes as I left. However, the shocking and unfortunate encounter on that fateful Sunday was a minor mishap, one that barely wrinkled the fabric of my relationship with Mr. Hale and was quickly ironed out.

Another Sunday goes by, another weekly anniversary of the worst day I've had since my parents died. The vacation incident only ranks below because I had run from the man I thought I loved, not allowed him to be driven away. This incident, even though I tell myself that time will dull the hurts between Brandon and me, is refreshed every time Sunday comes round. My thoughts turn morbid. I contemplate life and death, and my inner critic sneers that if I died now, no one would mourn my passing.

For Christmas Mr. Hale throws a fête, a ribald affair that I escape by claiming sickness and sticking my finger down my throat to provide evidence. I cannot do the same for the New Year's Eve party, but the guests are business associates who know nothing about his sexual preferences.

My courage, or perhaps my idiocy, set its iron talons to me the following week. I feign illness again, though careful not to repeat previously used symptoms. As soon as I am sure that Mr. Hale has departed, I get dressed.

Bunny Ch. 12

If you haven't read part 11, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I do not awake until I am summoned for supper.

Mr. Hale sits at the head of the dining table no matter who is present or what we are eating. When I first arrived I sat on his right. I would nervously pick at my food while stealing glances at the handsome, intimidating man who savored his meal and ignored me.

During my mid-teens my tutors would sit on his right, I on Mr. Hale's left in an armless dining chair whose legs were an inch or so shorter than the others. I would attempt to make myself unobtrusive as Mr. Hale inquired after my studies and made suggestions. I did not speak. If the tutor revealed an insolent remark or a low grade, Mr. Hale would say, "I'll take care of it." He would not look at me again until it was time to punish me. In those days I was clothed, and the only contact he made was through a wooden paddle, and the withdrawal of any warmth was far more painful. However, if the tutor praised an intelligent comment or exceptional test score, Mr. Hale would turn to me. I would replay those moments in my mind; his blue eyes would meet mine, crinkle slightly at the corners, and Mr. Hale would gift me with a close-lipped smile and a soft pat on the cheek.

Through the past four years I have been kneeling to his right unless his business associates visit; any tutors are more likely to be Mr. Hale's "special friends." In the beginning it was a thrill every time his fingers presented a morsel of food. His hands were smooth and well-kept, and knowing that I alone had the privilege of feeding from them was a tranquilizer to any brain activity. The closeness of Mr. Hale's body intoxicated me. I could feel the heat radiating through his clothes and would breathe deeply, inhaling his warm masculinity. The first and only time I dared initiate bodily contact was after a long night. I was so exhausted that I let my head fall against his corded thigh. Mr. Hale's fingers in my hair startled me from sleepy comfort, and I tensed, my breath caught in my throat. Instead of punishing me for being lax in my abeyance he stroked my scalp briefly, sending pleased shivers tripping down my spine. Then he pushed my head so that I was sitting upright.