14. Nikolaus #2
His thighs are sticky with lube, my cum, and the evidence of his own orgasm, and I make a point of wiping every inch, letting the memory of my touch linger.
When I finish, I take a clean towel and wrap it around his hips, then guide him upright so he’s standing, shaky but upright, supported by my hands on his waist.
His whole body is vibrating, the aftershocks still working through him in little waves.
He can’t quite meet my eyes, and I don’t push it.
Instead, I tip his chin up with two fingers and smooth the tears from his cheeks, gentle as I can manage, before kissing him indulgently, licking into the seam of his lips and swallowing his sweet little gasps.
As I pull back, I tell him, “You did perfect,” and this time I keep my voice at a hush, as though we’re sharing a secret. “I know it’s a lot, waking up like that. But you’ll see—it gets easier, and better, every time.”
He swallows audibly, his fingers coming up to lightly caress his lips as if he can still feel mine on them.
“I—You kissed me,” he murmurs, a pretty pink blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears.
I smile at the awe in his voice, then take the towel away, leading him into the shower.
It’s oversized, a tiled cathedral with a bench and multiple jets.
I set the water to just above body temperature, and when the steam begins to rise, I coax him under the spray.
He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, shivering as if his skin is still catching up to the real world.
I pour shampoo into my palm and lather his hair, working it gently through the tangles. He sighs a little at the feel of my fingers against his scalp and visibly relaxes some.
After the rinse, I tip his chin back, tilting his face up into the water to sluice the suds away.
He blinks, droplets clinging to his lashes, and I brush them aside with a thumb before scrubbing his neck and shoulders with a loofah.
I leave a hand on his hip the whole time; it steadies him and, more importantly, reminds him that his body is not his own this morning, that I will wash him, handle him, present him as I decide.
He stands through all of it, still pink-cheeked and blinking slowly, only flinching when the loofah passes over a sensitive spot or lingers at his chest. His nipples are small and pale, half-hidden by the fog of the shower, and as I work the loofah in lazy circles over them, the left one hardens under my thumb. He gives a shaky little inhale.
“Sensitive?” I ask, and when he doesn’t answer, I dip my head, mouth closing around the stiff peak, sucking just long enough to pull a moan from him.
He wriggles, not quite a protest, and I capture his wrists in one hand, holding them against his sternum. “You’re so shy in the morning,” I murmur, kissing a line up the center of his chest, “but you’re such a treat, Charlie. Did you know that?”
He shakes his head, water spattering the glass.
I’m not sure if he’s denying it or just unable to make words, and I don’t care; I like the effect I have.
I like it so much that I go back for seconds, nipping lightly at his chest until he finally lets out a proper sound, a high, startled mew.
His thighs clamp together, his hips rocking forward.
He’s so prone to shame, even after yesterday. It roots itself in him like a weed, and I know it will take months—years, perhaps—to starve it out fully. But I’m nothing if not patient, and the process itself is its own reward.
I finish washing him, then guide him to sit on the built-in bench.
He perches with his knees drawn up, arms tucked around them, shrinking himself down to nothing.
I kneel before him, hands braced on either side of his legs, caging him in against the cool tile.
My eyes trace every inch of him, memorizing the flush that extends from his cheeks clear down to his chest, the half-moons of his bitten lips, the bloom of tremors that refuse to let go.
“How are you so goddamn perfect?” I mutter under my breath.
And to think, I could have missed all of this if I hadn’t stopped at that club. If I hadn’t taken him.
* * *
Charlie sits on the sofa in the den, fingers twisting at the edge of his shirt as the doctor I hired settles into an armchair across from him.
I sit in the chair directly to Charlie’s left, and though I did promise him that I’d keep quiet, I won’t hesitate to act if this man disrespects Charlie in any way.
On paper, he’s excellent. He has credentials from institutions that make people nod respectfully, decades of experience, and a reputation for discretion that is worth more than most medical degrees in my world.
The problem is that he represents an entire profession that has apparently spent years shrugging at Charlie.
“So,” the doctor says gently, offering Charlie a reassuring smile. “Why don’t we start with whatever is bothering you most these days?”
Charlie hesitates, staring down at his hands for several seconds before finally speaking. “I guess the fatigue probably bothers me the most. But it kind of depends on the day, you know?”
The doctor nods, looking attentive. “Could you describe how it affects you on an average day?”
Charlie lets out a breath. “Yeah… I would say it usually prevents me from doing as much as I would like. I almost always have to take naps during the day, but it’s not like I’m scheduling them and stuff; my body just kind of gives up, and then I fall asleep for a few hours.
Some days I’ll sleep all day. But it’s not even that I feel sleepy; it’s more like exhaustion.
Sometimes it feels like my body weighs twice what it should.
Like somebody replaced all my blood with wet cement. ”
As the conversation continues, I begin to realize just how much effort it takes for Charlie to simply exist.
The exhaustion is only the beginning. There are episodes of dizziness, migraines, balance issues, full-body pain, and a muscle spasm that hasn’t stopped spasming in seven years.
Sometimes he feels so weak that he has to sit on the floor if there are no chairs around. If he’s more active than usual one day, he’ll feel like he has the flu for days after.
His fingers tremble unwillingly, and sometimes he even loses control of his limbs.
He explains all this with a strange kind of apology in his voice, like he’s reporting a series of personal failures instead of listing symptoms. The doctor’s pen moves silently across a legal pad.
Charlie keeps talking, but I pick up on the way his voice thins to a near-whisper when he describes things that aren’t easily measured—how it feels to wake up knowing that every movement will cost him, or how in the evenings, after he’s spent a whole day forcing himself around, it sometimes gets so bad that he can’t hold his fork at dinner.
He talks about how often he throws up, how it sometimes feels like there’s a splinter in his fingertip, but there never actually is.
The doctor looks up, expression unreadable. “Do you feel like there’s a pattern? Times when it’s worse, or when it improves?”
“Not really. I mean, it’s always there. It’s usually worse when I overexert myself, but that’s really hard for me to predict because I’ll just be doing normal things people my age do all the time.”
“‘Normal’ things?” the doctor questions.
Charlie bites at the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, like walking around a store or a park. Or carrying groceries.”
The doctor’s mouth scrunches, and I watch his gaze flick toward Charlie’s arms and hands, hunting for something—signs of muscle wasting, tremor, anything observable. “May I?” he asks, then leans forward with one palm out, waiting for permission.
Charlie extends his hand, fighting the urge to recoil. The doctor’s fingers are assured but gentle, guiding Charlie’s wrist through simple flexes, then instructing him to push back as he pushes against him.
Once he’s satisfied, he releases Charlie and reclines into the armchair again. “Your strength is quite reduced for your age and body type,” he says. “I imagine that’s frustrating.”
Charlie shrugs, eyes stubbornly fixed on a crack between the floorboards. “I’ve kind of gotten used to it.”
The doctor nods, then says, “I’d like to discuss what tests you’ve had done. I imagine you’ve had a rheumatoid panel?”
“Yes, um, I think I’ve had basically every kind of blood test. I was negative for Lupus, Epstein-Barr, Lyme—all the…
I forget what they are, but like IgG, IgM—those are always fine.
No HIV or anything. My white blood cell count is always over 11,000, but I don’t think it’s ever gotten to be above like 18,000.
Every time I have an ANA test, it goes back and forth between being negative and positive.
But my rheumatoid factor is always negative.
Um… my CRP is always high… I’m trying to think if there’s anything else… ”
The doctor nods again, making a small humming sound. “That’s a very good recall. CRP above normal—consistently?”
“Yeah. I think it’s usually around 16.”
“Any recent imaging?”
“Mhm. CTs and MRIs. Everything was normal besides some white lesions on my brain, but the doctor said that they were probably from my migraines. Oh, I’ve also had some thyroid testing done, with ultrasounds and biopsies, but everything was normal there.”
The doctor’s lips flatten as he continues to notate the conversation. “Any rashes?”
“Well, I get some really big red spots on my chest and arms, but I’m pretty sure that’s just eczema.”
“Have they ever explored any mast cell disorder?”
A blankness passes over Charlie’s face; he shakes his head. “No, I’m not really sure what that is.”
The doctor launches into a series of questions, and Charlie answers them, sometimes with a “no,” sometimes with a sheepish “maybe, but it doesn’t seem important.”
It takes nearly an hour.