Nikolaus #3
He tries to sidle along the tiled edge of the tub, putting an extra foot of distance between us, but I block his route with a palm on his shoulder.
“Please,” he says, voice so small I almost doubt I heard it. “Can I… can I do it myself?” His eyes flick up in a desperate, searching way. I imagine he’s hoping I have a soft spot for dignity, or maybe that I enjoy the show of him pretending to be tough. He’s wrong on both counts.
“No, sweetheart,” I say, as gently as I can.
He looks down, swallowing hard. “Please?” he tries again, and the hope in his voice is so thin it’s almost transparent. “I can, I swear. I’ll be quick. I won’t—I won’t try to escape or anything.”
I shake my head. “I can’t allow that while you’re worked up like this, baby.”
He looks stricken, but then the spark of anger flares briefly in his eyes before dying again. “Why?”
“I need to make sure you’re safe and taken care of,” I answer, and I say it very, very softly.
He doesn’t have a response to that, so instead, he lets me guide him to the side of the tub. I reach for the hem of his hoodie, fingers brushing the worn cotton, and Charlie’s hands dart down, clutching the fabric in place even tighter.
“Don’t,” he pleads, voice hitching. “I’ll get in with it on. You don’t have to—”
I put one palm on his shoulder and use the other to pry his hands away. His grip is surprisingly strong; it takes effort. But in the end, his arms are forced forward, wrists pinned awkwardly in front of his ribs.
I strip the hoodie over his head in one careful motion. He doesn’t resist, not really, though his breath hitches with the indignity of it. As soon as he’s free, he immediately crosses one arm over his belly, the other hand darting down to shield his cock.
He stands before me, hunched, knees knocked together.
The pale canvas of his body is mottled with evidence of his hardships—stretch marks, silvery at the hips, pelvis, and upper arms, a scattering of faded bruises on his thighs, and a rash of tiny red pits along his jaw and neck, probably from stress.
He is all softness, his shoulders rounded, his chest not quite flat, the line of his belly dipping then gently ballooning out, no hint of muscle, but an unmistakable, pillowy softness that makes me want to both break him and worship him at the same time.
Charlie catches my gaze and goes red from his hairline to his chest. With a choked noise, he pulls his arms in tighter, one crossing his belly and the other clamped between his thighs, hiding—ineffectively—his soft cock and the adorable pooch of his lower stomach.
“Please,” he tries again, voice breaking. “Can I just do it myself? Please? I—” his mouth works, but he can’t seem to find the right words. “I don’t… I don’t like being seen.”
I crouch so we’re nearly eye to eye, not touching him, not crowding him, letting the silence carry the message that I’ll wait all night if needed.
He doesn’t last two seconds before the silence caves him in. He drops his gaze to the tile, shoulders caving, spine folding down as he shrinks before me. I can feel the tension in his arms, the barely contained panic in his rapid, shallow breathing.
“Let me see you, Charlie,” I say, quiet but direct. My hand closes gently around both his wrists, thumbs pressing the delicate tendons inside. “Let me look at you, baby.”
He shakes his head, lips pressed white. I don’t push harder—just wait.
The air between us fills with the sound of his breathing, the slow drip of the faucet, the distant city hush outside the window.
He holds out for longer than I expect. But, in the end, I am patient, and he is not built for resistance.
His arms start to shake from the effort of holding them closed. After a minute, I feel the fight begin to slip out of him. I wait until he’s nearly limp before I draw his wrists forward, gently, so they part and leave him exposed.
He is beautiful. A desperate little thing, all hunched and trembling like a caught rabbit.
His arms, once so fiercely locked, now slide forward at my insistence, exposing the soft bulge of his belly and the sad, limp weight of his cock nestled in the little tuft of golden hair.
He makes a soft noise in his throat, a whimper of surrender, and his hands flutter up as if to reach for something—cover himself, maybe, or ward off a blow.
But I keep his wrists gently apart, cradled in my hands, so he has no choice but to stand there and let me see all of him.
He closes his eyes, and when he speaks, it is barely above a wet, shivering whisper. “Don’t look at me.”
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He opens one eye, peeks at me, and instantly regrets it.
“Because I’m gross,” he mutters, and that’s when the tears restart, thick and sudden and splashing hot onto his arms. He flinches away from his own words, as if the confession is a curse that might poison us both.
“I’m gross and ugly and fat and—” he swallows a sob, voice hitching so hard I almost think he’ll be sick, “and I don’t want to be seen like this. ”
Oh, sweetheart, I think, a coil of something fierce and fond unspooling behind my ribs.