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It’s a beautiful day, especially for West Revachol. Sea winds blow the pollution towards La Delta, while the harbour stands clear and bright. From the top floor of your building, you can see the neat homes and trimmed streets of Le Jardin and the Cycle, the Esperance sparkling in the sun. You pour two cups of coffee and stir cream and sugar into one. You whistle as you carry both cups to the spare room. He’s already awake when you open the door, and you smile despite the glare he’s giving you. Perhaps to spite it. He’s yelling something under his gag, his face going pink, but it doesn’t matter. No matter how he pulls and thrashes, he’s not getting free. You even went through the trouble of the leather cuffs, the padded ones that wouldn’t cut into his skin.
You place both cups on the bedside table and pull open the curtain. The sunlight catches his gorgeous form on the bed, a bright yellow glow on the blanket. His eyes squint at the sudden light.
“Good morning, Harry.”
He stares at you with those beautiful eyes, shimmering in the clean sun. You bend down to sweep the hair tossed over them, pushing his fringe back. Kiss the smooth skin there, feel a heady curl of control at the fresh scent of your shampoo and soap. He’s all yours.
“Why are you so upset, baby boy?” you ask, watching in delight at his shudder. You disgust him. You disgusted his entire little street gang, their faces wrought in glee as they screamed Faggot! across the dark street. He’d shouted, too, but his posture wasn’t as excited. He looked nervous. He looked delicious.
All limbs, just filling out with youthful muscle. You guessed 19. He told you 20. It didn’t really matter; you were older. The older, the better, you think, a vile old pervert. It scares the shit out of him. What’s this fucked up faggot going to do to him?
It’s really too bad you look young for your age. You're not even that old.
You kiss his nose. His brows beetle and he wrenches his head, huffing harshly.
“Oh, baby boy, sweetie,” you coo, “what’s wrong?”
Oh, that anger. Impotent fury. Youthful confidence that if he feels enough, pushes enough, he might win. It goes right to your groin. This is why you prefer the young men. They have a sense of invincibility, the idea it’ll always work out. You beat it out of them, you watch them turn from vicious animals to broken ones. The same men that swear they’ll never beg or want you to fuck them, they’ll eventually crawl on their hands and knees just to lick up your piss.
“Beautiful boy,” you murmur. He really is. Harry is the most gorgeous boy you’d ever seen. Even when he was a dirt-scrubbed street urchin, picking coins out of the gutter, you’d seen the potential in him. Strangely top-heavy, with long loping legs like the wild deer over The Pox. Those legs keep kicking, but not far enough, white cuffs around his ankles. He whuffs like a dog, grey-green eyes rolling around the room, body searching for weaknesses. You stroke the v of his chest, indulgent smile hurting your face. He really is too much. Your hand disappears under the cover, splaying over his bare, warm skin. His breath stutters and he stares, wide-eyed. He’s started growing hairs on his chest, tiny prickly things, and you run your palm over them until you find a nipple. You want to hear him whine, gently circling the nub, feeling him tense. You drag and catch the flesh, a stiff lovely thing, tweaking back and forth. Harry makes a sound in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. Not quite what you wanted, but sweet all the same.
You lean down and kiss at his neck. Suck in a mouthful and bite. That gets the noise you were hoping for, that lovely sound. Sublime.
“Good boy,” you murmur. He growls at that, but it’s weak. Soon enough he’ll be melting under you, struggling to resist the flame of desire, but for now, you’re enjoying this. He tries to spit coffee in your face later, and getting him to the bathroom is a struggle, like a rabid animal at the end of a leash. You show him what the flog at your belt is for, painting his back and buttocks red, massaging the tenderised flesh. You’re impressed that he doesn’t obey, kicking and struggling throughout three enemas, trying to bite whenever you’re in range. It’s adorable. You’ve seen middle aged men turn into messes the second you insert the nozzle, but Harry glares and scratches and kicks. But, you suppose those men might have known why you were doing it. Proud member of the 15th Indotribe Harrier Du Bois would never have heard of an enema before, let alone understood why you were giving him one. Or three.
He tries anew to run at the sight of your red room, screaming behind his new ball gag. You click your tongue.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun here, lovely boy. Don’t you want that?”
He hisses and howls when you open him up. You have time, plenty of time. A few days off to break him in before you have to get back. And if you don’t break him in, it will be just as fun to leave him for hours. He’s worth the time.
Your beautiful boy continues the struggle, flinching at every lazy whip, and he glares when you replace his ball gag with a ring. His beautiful eyes water as they glare, and you don’t tell him just how hard that gets you. You pinch his nose and his eyes go wide, languidly thrusting over his tongue. You feel him spasm, trying to jerk his head away. His tears are so alluring that you pull out, just to lave them off his face. Saliva drips from your cock.
“Just like that, Harry.”
You fetch your Trigat and yank him up by the hair. You slide back into his mouth and he stares. The flash blinds him and you smile as the photo slowly develops. He already looks fucked out, bloodshot eyes, covered in saliva and tears. A tiny pearl of precum on his red lip. You cum over his face and take another shot. Green eyes squinting and running, painted all over that flushed, handsome expression…
Harry begs when you start browsing your toys. You were waiting for that. You appreciate how long it took him to beg. He didn’t even relent when you ate him out; that always gets the aggressively straight men to rage and cry; he remained stiff, taking deep breaths. Everything he does makes him more intoxicating, somehow. You like him no matter how he looks.
You show mercy and select a simple plug, and the tension seeps from him as you work it in. You tease, pushing at the base, watching his legs tremble.
“Baby boy, do you like that?”
His head hangs down. He groans. You stroke his sweaty, red-lined back. Strong muscles tense under his skin. Your mouth waters at the sight of his flaccid cock, wondering how thick it will get. Maybe when he’s a little more compliant, you’ll ride him, let him imagine it’s a woman on top of him. There’s no reason not to use it, such a pretty thing. Claim every part of this lovely boy.
He weeps when you fuck him, chest heaving.
“Poor thing,” you demur, voice rough from pleasure, “you must be so tired.”
You kiss between his shoulderblades. Sweet boy. Another kiss. Stupid fucking boy.
“Fucking idiot,” you laugh, hearing him choke back a sob, “stupid little boy.”
You hear a wet sound. It sounds like ‘fuck you.’ He repeats it, over and over. You meet it with your own rhythm, and he makes a wonderful sound when you come. You make sure to plug him up.
“I think I’ll keep this here. What do you think, baby?”
Harry breathes hard. His face is still covered in cum. You show him the photos and he closes his eyes, hissing.
Your new boy refuses to eat off the floor, but he does drink from the dog bowl, slurping noisily. You push your boot down on his head and laugh when water sloshes around his face. He coughs and gasps, trying not to vomit. His body shudders. It’s a lovely instrument, the body. You can make it sing and struggle, condition it to desire and fear.
You lock him back in the room, thinking about dinner. Next time, he eats his food.
-
You don’t mind when he loses a little muscle mass. The charming tension of his chest, arms, back, legs; that remains. Conditioning is easier than anyone thinks. When a person fears something, it only takes one traumatic instance to start the process. The exciting part is shaping it, deciding what triggers the fear, building it over time. And time, you have.
For some particularly proud men, you’ve used a clicker. A single click and they’d freeze in terror, and you’d smile as their eyes stayed fixed on your hand. For others, you’d tap the small of their back, hum a specific tune, or bring them a coffee.
For Harry, you call him “beautiful boy.” You’ve already been calling him that, so you rework it. Before you start; bring his head between your legs, slide off your belt, insert his vibrator, you make sure to call him that. You kiss where his jaw meets his neck, just under his ear. It’s sensitive there. He always squirms.
The camera click isn’t a good conditioning tool. The fun’s already started when you bring it out. Machines really are a marvel; MCs will always be your favourite, but there’s something magical about the running inks, forming eternal memories on film.
You usually keep a slim photo album for each person, but you can’t help yourself with Harry. He’s too precious, too pretty. You want to capture all of his angles. His expressions…
“Beautiful boy?”
His body goes stiff and his hands curl into fists. But you’re feeling quite relaxed this morning as you take out his gag. Your cockhead nudges his stubborn lips and an indulgent amusement rises in your chest. You don’t force it, rubbing it on his plush lips. You’re glad you insist on the lip balm each evening; it’s even better when he sneered about all the ‘faggot shit’ in your bathroom.
He turns his face away and you sigh. Really, you should order him to open up, but his face is so handsome. You could cum like this. If he tries to bite you, then you can make good on your threat to pull his front teeth out. It would ruin his cheeky little smile. You could get him dentures.
Your cock throbs and you groan.
“Beautiful boy? Harry?”
He shudders underneath you. You languidly drag your weeping cock across his broad cheek.
“What do you think about dentures?”
A frown pulls his brows. You know that as his thinking face; an adorable, frustrated expression. You moan when his mouth drops open. Not in submission, but horror. A stunning green eye slides towards your face. Fuck. You almost cum from that alone.
“It would make things easier for you, sweet boy. What do you say?”
“N-no.”
You pinch his earlobe, eyebrow raising.
“Please, no, Kim- S-sir.”
God. Pleasure pulses down your spine and your toes curl.
“No? You wouldn’t need dental work, either. So simple, darling.”
He turns his head and opens his mouth. Wrapping his teeth. Terror shines from his eyes.
“Good boy.”
He even swallows, red gasping mouth painted white, throat bobbing.
Such a good boy.
-
“Harry? Beautiful boy?”
He can’t see you, but he tenses. You draw back the flog as he blindly flails his head, unable to see or shout. Poor thing.
The ampoule cracks and you remove the blindfold to show him the photo. He blinks at the sudden brightness and stares at his own back, painted with scarlet lines.
-
You almost kick open the door. Anger surges through you, grinding your teeth. Welcome to Revachol, Welcome to Revachol, Welcome to Revachol!
Did the young man in the spare room ever get welcomed? Of course he wouldn’t. He looks up in terror and you have no time for his pleading.
You call him nothing. He’s unconscious in the photo. You leave him there and regret it in the morning. It’s a mess. At least he’s quiet, washes himself without complaint and eats right off the floor.
Like the fucking bitch he is.
-
At least he’s your bitch. Your fucking idiot boy, a stupid young man, one of the thousands in Revachol that ran with their gangs and groups. Thinking they’d claim something of their own. Foolish boys that would die from drugs and street races.
Harry no longer believes things will work out. He’s not stronger than leather and chains, he’s not smart enough to escape, he isn’t special or invincible.
He lives because you want him to. And he knows it. You stroke his sweaty, trembling legs and kiss at his raw, loose asshole, leaking lube and your cum. Gently push it back in with a finger and watch it slide out again.
“My beautiful boy,” you murmur, and slide his plug in. Harry whimpers in his chest.
-
Rain lashes the windows and lightning flashes over the horizon. Harry’s mouth is warm around your cock as you stroke his hair. You’ve turned the lights off, letting the droplets sprinkle yellow and white over the glass, reflecting tiny smudged Revachols. You wish it stormed more often.
Harry twitches when the thunder is particularly loud. You get it. No place to call home, huddled in whatever building didn’t leak too badly. Bad nights on the streets.
“Shh. It’s alright. It’s alright, beautiful boy.”
That makes his anxiety worse. Ah. That was unintentional. You really meant it. He was darling like this. You slide out of his mouth, half hard cock going back into your pants while Harry stays perfectly still. Your fingers find his hair. It’s getting long.
You feel him twitching, like an animal in its sleep. But he’s wide awake, shallow breathing and forced silence.
Your animal. Lovely boy. Favourite pet.
You stroke at his collar.
“It can’t reach you in here, Harry. You’re safe.”
And you really mean it.
-
Harry asks for a certain book from the Jamrock Library. It’s the next in an insipid series of fantasy books that he sheepishly admits he tried to keep up with. His other ‘indotribe’ members thought ‘reading was for fags’, so he had to be careful about it.
His face lights up when you hand it to him, thick fingers gripping the cover. Harry’s excited, and it’s a delectable look on him.
You want to see it again. So you bring him other things. More books. Sketching charcoals and paper. Flowers and oil pastels. You watch as he brings them to life; rough but with clear raw talent. You ask the library for art books and he devours them eagerly.
His fingers get smudges on your shirt and trousers when you fuck him, and it’s thrilling to see yourself as one of his canvases. You think he glows in the setting sun.
-
Harry’s sitting at the desk in his room and sketching the skyline outside. The sunlight makes the room glow, but you’re focused on him, brown hair pulled loosely back, pink tongue breaching his lip in concentration.
There’s a dangerous pressure in your chest. You forget why you came in. Now, you’re just content to watch him work, even if he pointedly ignores your presence. You’re content to see him alive and safe.
Fuck. You really mean it.
-
Your beautiful boy is listless. The day you realised that you meant it when you called it ‘Harry’s Room’, was the day you were forced to confront an uncomfortable truth. The novelty had worn off; not just scuffed but completely removed from months of play. But you had not become bored, and the thought of replacing him puts great pressure on your chest. You promised yourself this would not happen again, would never happen again. It did terrible things to you, being vulnerable. But Dominic died because he was free. Your baby boy is safe. Very safe. Sweet baby boy. Even the thought of him makes you sigh in pleasure.
Could you have this? Could you continue to enjoy comfort? That warm little glow in your chest when you saw him in the mornings? Looking forward to going home because Harry was there? The photos going from harsh and exploratory to familiar, almost sweet? Your beautiful boy’s face in an expression of bliss? The games had turned from your fun to finding what made Harry’s toes curl, what wrung those darling little moans and whimpers from his throat, to a shared pleasure you could both enjoy.
You’d shared more than that. Meals, board games, arguments. Harry knew a surprising amount about interisolary art history and pale exploration, not something you expected from a street gang addict. You sometimes make a contrary statement just to watch the passion rush to his expression, puffing up like a kitten. You stroke Harry's hair while you listen to TipTop broadcasts, and he annoys you by bringing up Mazovian criticisms of the Tournee. For that you pull his hair and he whines. It's adorable. He criticises your cooking but all of his ‘improvements’ sound conjured from thin air. Pineapple in tourin? Is he mad?
But he’s never tasted pineapple either, so you buy exotic fruits from Siigay and watch him lick the juice from his fingers. You lean over and kiss him, tasting pineapple and lychee and guava on his sweet tongue.
He squirms when you sit on his lap and stick a hand up his shirt. You feel his breaths under his warm skin.
You love him.
-
He tried to run. Taking advantage of your softness and leniency.
When the others tried to run, you’d broken both their legs and left them in the stocks. With Harry, you restrain him and stroke his achilles heels, whispering that if he ever does that again, you’ll cut the tendons there. He cries and begs you not to. You kiss each heel and ask him not to force you to do that. Ruin his beautiful legs…
Since that day, he’d stopped fighting. He’d also stopped most other things, sitting quietly until you fetch him. You’d think he’s trying to punish you, but soon you realise he’s trying to please you by being ‘obedient’. Cajoling doesn’t work. You bring him gifts and he pretends to enjoy them, nervous eyes on you. He’s submissive and follows every order, but he doesn’t melt the same way. His toes don’t curl.
His passion is locked far away, put in the back for his own survival.
“You don’t like it, baby boy?”
Harry looks up from the very expensive box of pastries, smile plastered on his face.
“I don’t know where to start, sir.”
That’s a habit that’s your own fault. You’d insisted on a proper form of address. Now, you couldn’t get rid of it. You pick a pastry, a blueberry tart with a dusting of icing sugar and candied violets. Harry watches you carefully, and when you raise it to his mouth, he opens it.
He doesn’t argue anymore, either. Not anymore. He mechanically chews, making appropriate sounds. You know he hates candied violets, and he eats one with no fuss. All you see is a tiny curl of his lip. Your chest hurts and you ignore it. You don’t have a creative bone in your body but you wish you had a painting, you wish you could make an entire set and hang them around your home. Harry has a knack for it. His old sketches used to messily cover the desk, but now he sorts everything, over and over again, wiping away nonexistent dirt. He’s developed a fastidiousness that runs completely contrary to his wild, strange nature. Perhaps because it does…
You try to tempt him with different mediums and he seems afraid to open them.
Sweet boy. You don’t know how to be sweet. You try, but nothing works. It’s easier to be cruel. He almost seems relieved at that, but you give up. You need someone else to fill the gap and he’s terrified at the sight. The other young man struggles, but Harry can’t do anything to help him. He can only sit and writhe as you force the new one to suck him off, kissing the tears from his cheeks.
“Oh, sweet thing. Baby. I love you.”
You hold his face and watch his beautiful face roll back in unwanted pleasure.
“Isn’t that better?”
He shudders and doesn’t say a word.
-
It doesn’t work. Nothing works. This is cruel. Cruel for him, and for you. Whatever animal he once was, you whipped it too many times. It refuses to emerge again, looking blank through green eyes.
“If you loved me, you’d let me go.”
He said that, once. Deep remorse burns your lungs when you remember how you beat him for the sheer temerity. Red had flooded your vision and you didn’t stop until he was begging. But it was the truth. You should. If you loved him more than you loved yourself, and your own freedom. But you don’t.
You can release him from this torment. It was the kindest thing you could give him. If you let him go now, he wouldn’t survive. Not like this, the animal he’s become. An animal that doesn’t even struggle when you take him to your MC and drive him out to a deserted beach. You walked to the shoreline, arm in arm, through the mist of the warming dawn. Harry stared out at the ocean, just starting to sparkle in the morning sunlight.
“Will it hurt, Kim?”
Your lungs soar to hear your name from his lips, and you almost take him home there and then. But there’s a cool, calm sense of finality surrounding you both. He’s not shaking; he’s simply present. His eyes shine beautifully in the growing sunlight.
“Oh, beautiful boy.”
When he breathes, it’s carried in little white puffs. You try to breathe them in. The sun is rising. This part of Revachol never sees RCM presence, but you are aware of others.
You kiss his forehead, nose, lips. His moustache has been growing in thick and fast, lately… he was so unbearably handsome...
“It won’t hurt at all, Harry.”
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes warm for a moment. He looks out over the waves again. You both watch the distant laden ships and the choppy waters. You run your hands slowly through his wavy hair, lungs about ready to spill over with regret.
“Goodbye, Harry.”
Harry doesn’t say anything at all. You press the gun to his head and fire, the heavy, acrid stench of sulphur filling the clean morning air. Harry goes limp and you lower him to the sand. You should bury him, but there’s no time. A slow trickle of blood runs down his forehead, into his hair… you brush your hand over his still-open eyes. Now he might be asleep, waiting for you to make a coffee…
You throw the gun into the sea. You leave him on the sand. Maybe he’ll find it beautiful.
-
A small motor boat chuffs along the coast. The young woman steering it heard a loud noise only minutes ago, and her curiosity got the better of her. She sees a man lying on the sand, and the colour of the jacket piques her interest. She thought she saw a couple walking by this morning…
Even from here, her keen eyes see the dark spot on his pale forehead. She steers the boat as close as she dares and gasps. Quickly tosses the anchor and jumps out, drenched in the freezing sea water. None of it matters when she hurries over, kneels by the dead man.
Except, he’s not dead. He has a heartbeat, and she blows air into his lungs. He doesn’t wake up, but he’s alive, somehow. She can’t move him by herself, but races back to the village. Her husband will help.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises, “please hold on.”
And the man does. The bullet rests where it breaches his skull, kissing his frontal lobe.
-
Harry's last words were asking if it would hurt. Those were his last words in the world. It haunts you, following you into your dreams and taunting your waking days. You’re reckless, and for what reason? You killed someone beautiful and unique for your own fucking guilt, for your own selfish desire to hold onto your own freedom. Unwilling to see him even try, unwilling to let him.
You can’t exactly stop working, but you’ve got no more passion for it. Honestly, you’d rather pivot to the chop shop or hotwiring MCs again. Every person you ‘interrogate’ just reminds you of how Harry struggled and resisted, until he didn’t.
Your thoughts are scattered, your work is sloppy. It’s harder to get results. You keep up a minimum standard, because if they replace you, kill you, then it’s all for nothing. He’d have died for nothing. Your living years are empty without him.
You’re barely paying attention as you speed through the backstreets of Coal City, flouting every road rule that ostensibly exists in Revachol. Police lights wink in your rearview mirrors and you curse as you pull over, tossing out your cigarette and reaching for your wallet. A decent bribe would get the RCM off your ass.
One cop stays in the MC while the other slides out. It’s an old Coupris 30. One of their worse models, only kept in use by the desperate. And RCM patrol officers counted. You wonder just how much you could lowball the officer lumbering towards your vehicle. He’s wearing one of those stupid caps, looking down at a standard ledger. Brown hair pours wildly out on either side. Your fingers twitch. His hair had sea salt in it…
“Licence and registration.”
Revachol doesn’t see many thunderstorms. Most break over the sea, distant violence, and the city mostly gets the rains. You’ve seen lightning strike old streetlamps and antennas; an immense burst of power that raised the hairs on your skin.
The same lightning floods your spine, causing you to involuntarily freeze in place. It’s rough, it’s annoyed, it’s roughened with cigarettes, but you know that voice.
You ever so slowly look up to see his face. It’s no longer the beautiful, youthful face you remember, but beloved all the same. It’s tired and slightly red, somehow aging to 40 when you know he could be no older than 30. You’re almost 50, and you’re certain you look only a few years older. The moustache has grown into muttonchops, and he’s filled out, thick biceps and chest underneath his uniform.
Harry, your Harry, your beautiful boy, taps his finger on the door insistently.
“Licence and registration.”
He’s alive. How? How is this possible? How is he here? You meet his eyes and find no recognition under the low brim of his cap, just reddened, tired eyes. How?
Your fingers shake as you pull out the documents and hand them over. His fingers are thick, and there’s a few dark hairs on each one. You want to stick them in your mouth.
“John… Shao?”
The way he says it, you know that he knows it’s fake. Not the licence. The licence is real and official. If he ran the number, it would come back as John Shao, son of a Seolite businessman killed in the war. He knows it’s a fake name. You don't know how, but he does.
You wait for something, anything. Will he punch you, arrest you? Drag you out of the car? Or will he take the cheap gun all officers carry and shoot you in the head? You'd almost be okay with that, if was him.
But whatever tipped him off, it’s not his memory. He hands the documents back over.
“You were driving erratically back there. Ran a red light and two stop signs. Almost hit a parked car. Want me to keep going?”
Every last drop of your control is poured into your composure.
“No, officer…?"
“Du Bois.”
Dei, it really is him. Did you die? Did you crash and you’ve gone to another world? One where Harry lives?
Pull yourself together, Kitsuragi.
“I apologise, officer. What is the fine?”
Harry scratches at his jaw. It’s slightly crooked; you can hear it on his speech. It’s him, it’s him.
“Hm. Make it 200 reál.”
That’s more than you were expecting. Perhaps extra for the lie of your name. Still, you hand over 250, hoping he’ll keep it all. He accepts it without a word, tucking it into a money clip.
“Okay, Mr. Shao,” he says, dripping with sarcasm, gaze drifting off, “drive safe.”
He pats the side of your MC and starts to walk away. Panic grips you. He can’t leave, he can’t go!
“Harry!”
Harry freezes in place. He slowly turns his head, a deep, unsettled frown on his face.
Ah. He didn’t tell you his first name.
Harry’s lip twists and he staggers back over. There’s a harsher line to him now, a danger that wasn’t present earlier. It's thrilling.
“Do I know you, Shao?”
You stare up at him. Under the black brim of his cap, you see the edge of a scar.
How did you survive, darling?
“We’ve… met.”
His eyes narrow. There’s a bitter tang to his face. Dei, his face. You want all his new expressions, you want all of his words. You want to run your hands through that thick hair. You want to hear that low voice moan.
“Sorry. Don’t remember you.”
Your lungs squeeze.
“It was… a long time ago. We were… somewhat close.”
You still remember how his insides squeezed around your cock. The heated sounds falling from his lips. His watering eyes and warm tongue. You couldn’t forget any of it. You didn’t want to.
Harry glances back at the Coupris, then back at you. Something strange twists over his face, and he grabs his pen and starts scribbling on the corner of a form. He tears it off and hands it to you.
It’s a phone number.
You stare at him in shock, fingers trembling around the precious scrap in your hands, watching Harry look down in apparent shame.
“I, uh. Had a bad accident. Lost my memory,” he says gruffly, and you want to wipe the stress from him, my poor pet, “but if, if we were friends or something. We could, talk, or whatever.”
Oh, lovely boy. Sweet boy. Why did he need to worry? He didn’t. Your darling. He came back to you. You wonder what he’d think seeing the photo album you keep by your bed, full of his face and body. He’s already pink from anxiety and embarrassment.
“Try that after hours, or something. I work late. But, well. Yeah.”
You hear an annoyed shout. You want to walk over to the Coupris and strangle the driver on the spot. You want to pull Harry to you by his ugly tie and kiss his stresses away. You know exactly how to make his body sing. A thrill runs up your spine at the thought of teaching him again.
Feeling bold, heady, you grin.
“Of course, Harry. I’ll make sure to catch you.”
He seems a little taken aback, but then he gives you a lopsided smile. Heat rushes to your belly. He’s still Harry, dear, lovely boy. Perhaps he can be yours again.
“Thanks, John. Talk to you later.”
You resist waving as he walks back to his MC and drives off with his partner. Your fingertips stroke his messy handwriting. With shaking hands, you manage to steer yourself home and quickly copy the number, right into your old photo album. Counting down the minutes as you stare at the photos, fisting your cock, moaning his name when you come.
You should tell him your real name at some point. You will.
Anything to hear your beautiful boy say your name again.