Chapter 4 Andre
FOUR
Andre
I’m torturing him, and he loves it.
No, it’s more than that. This isn’t simply an indulgence for him. He’s not like most people who sign up to act out their fantasies. He needs this.
This isn’t an act. This is the truth of what he is, and it’s been buried, dormant, half-dead. Now, with me watching him, stalking him, needling him, he’s coming to life.
It’s fucking beautiful.
Technically, I’m not supposed to be interacting with him, but I can’t fulfill his fantasy without it.
It’s not enough to instruct him via text.
I mean, yes, he needs that. It makes him hyperaware.
Paranoid. Excited. But it’s too cold and distant.
Elias needs a hand on his arm, a voice in his ear.
He needs a face and body to shape his fantasy—and the only person allowed in that role is me.
I wish I had a camera in his apartment. I can tell he’s progressing with the plugs, obeying my orders.
I can see it in the increasingly feverish look, in the way he’s breaking from the mold he’s made for himself.
Today, day three, he was biting his lip during our conversation. I don’t think he even realized it.
Each day, I’ve watched Elias leave his apartment building struggling to adjust to what’s inside him.
But I wish I could witness that first moment as he pushes a new, larger plug into himself.
I wish I could see his face as he’s stretched wider and deeper.
I bet he bites his lip like he did during our conversation. I bet he shudders as his cock stiffens.
The first two days, I watched him walk home, enjoying his shaky desperation, but tonight it’s not enough. As I’ve edged him, I’ve edged myself, and I need some kind of release, even if it’s not my own. That, I won’t get until the end.
So I’m not watching him walk home tonight.
I’m waiting in the utility closet on his floor.
I’m a little worried, which surprises me.
I don’t usually worry about other people.
But I don’t want anything to happen to Elias, and I’m not there to stalk him, to haunt him, to protect him from all the monsters other than me.
If he’s not home soon, I’ll have to hunt him down—along with anyone who’s dared touch him.
He’s mine.
I’m allowed to think like that right now, in this role.
I’m struggling at the moment, however. This closet smells like a weird but familiar mix of mustiness and bleach. Being closed in here, in the dark, has my mind going to bad places. I don’t let thoughts form, not concretely, but my skin feels tight.
Where the hell is Elias?
Footsteps tromp and a door slams, but I know that’s not him. He would never move like that.
Then I hear a light, uneven tread. I hear a low, almost inaudible whine, and I close my eyes as the bad thoughts fade away and my mind is filled only with Elias.
I’ve left the utility closet door unlatched.
I ease it open a few inches to peer out.
I’m across the hall from his apartment, a few doors down.
I have a good view when he staggers to his door.
He knows he’s alone now, that the hallway is empty.
He’s trying to be quiet, but he’s not hiding the way his body is rocking.
My view is from behind. His jeans are too loose to really show the curve of his ass, so I have to imagine it, the round globes, the cleft between, the plug that’s stretching him inside. He’s hunched over, fumbling with his keys.
My cock throbs as I watch him. I have to close my eyes—I have to—but when I open them again, Elias is already disappearing into his apartment.
There’s not much time—he was too far gone—so I slip out of the closet and move quickly and silently to his door. I’m exposed in the hallway, but the light is dim and there are no cameras. And if anyone sees me, if I have to, I’ll kill them. I won’t miss this for anything.
I put my ear to Elias’s door. It’s flimsy, a mere illusion of privacy. I can hear him gasping on the other side of it. I can hear his moan of relief as he gets his hand on himself.
Waves of arousal roll through my body as I listen to him masturbate. He’s nearly crying. He needs me. I could go to him, help him. But not yet.
He’s loud. Each cry is bitten off like he’s trying to be quiet but can’t. What is he picturing? How hard is he stroking himself? Is he clenching on the plug? I hate that I can’t see, that I don’t know.
Soon, though.
Soon.
For now, this exquisite torture will have to be enough. As he nears his orgasm, my fingers flex against the hollow door between us. My cock throbs in the confines of my jeans.
When he comes with a sharp cry, my body convulses against the door, and my cock kicks, stiff and unrelieved, against my fly.
Elias starts crying after. It’s ugly and lonely and desperate.
Soon, baby. Soon.
* * *
I’m halfway through the deli’s terrible coffee and Elias hasn’t yet seen me. He’s helping bring new inventory into the bodega’s storeroom, so it’s not his fault but it’s still very irritating, especially given that today he’s using the last, largest plug.
I want to text him, but he could emerge at any moment and see me. I have to content myself with reading the messages on my burner phone.
I had intended to use it only to command him, but last night after I got home, his cries were still echoing in my head.
They were transmuting, twisting up with other things.
I was feeling them from the inside instead of the outside, and I needed things back in their place.
So, pacing around my living room, I sent him a message.
Are you in bed or on the floor?
The message bubbles appeared and disappeared several times without anything coming through. I sent, You’re on the floor.
Elias: How did you know that?
He thought I was watching him. In a way, I had been because I’d been at his door. But I knew because … I just knew.
I wasn’t about to go into any of that.
I texted, Next time I ask you a question, answer it.
Elias: Ok
I settled on my couch then, relaxing as my arousal started to feel good again. My hands steadied as I instructed him, Get up. Go take a shower. Remove the plug. Then get in bed. Tell me when you’ve completed your tasks.
I had to wait then, but it helped that I was imagining each stage of his compliance. Having watched him so much, I’m sure that I constructed a reasonably accurate image. The only real flaw was that I pictured him in my bathroom instead of his.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone lit up.
Elias: I did everything. I’m in bed.
My thumbs hovered for a good thirty seconds. I wanted to praise him, but it wasn’t the moment. It wasn’t my role. So I sent, Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be harder.
Elias: Ok. Goodnight
I stared at that until four a.m., waking up my phone every time the screen went black. I managed a few hours of sleep, but then it distracted me in my office all morning. I almost deleted it. Instead, I sent a new message, intending for him to wake up to it: Don’t masturbate before work.
The typing bubbles immediately appeared then disappeared. He was already up. Damn it. I didn’t expect that. When the bubbles didn’t appear again, I sent, Did you already come?
Elias: Yes. When I woke up.
A smile made an unfamiliar tug at my lips. I liked that he’d woken aroused and needful. I liked, too, that I could reprimand him.
That was very bad, I sent him.
Elias replied, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to.
I typed, wishing I could whisper it in his ear, I’ll have to punish you for that.
Bubbles appeared and disappeared, but no message ever came through.
It wasn’t easy getting through the rest of my work day, and it really pissed me off that shit came up at the end, causing me to miss Elias’s walk to the bodega.
What if he was intimidated by the final plug and didn’t use it? I wasn’t there to catch him, to correct him. It’s my role. But my other role, one less satisfying but more public, kept me from it.
When the bodega’s storeroom door opens and Elias emerges, I realize how still I’ve gone. I feel like stone, like I can’t break free. It’s a bad state for me to be in.
Usually, my stillness is predatory, watchful, a stillness that I’m in control of.
It’s deliberate. But this kind of stillness is the kind I can’t control, and it can be explosive.
I don’t like it. Almost, for a second, I start to panic.
Nothing that would show, but I feel it—the hum, the buzz, the edge—
Then I refocus. It’s abrupt, intense, and it gives my control back to me. He’s using the plug.
I can see it in the glassy look of his eyes, the slight flushing along his high cheekbones, and the open, unselfconscious movement of his body. It reveals how naturally graceful he is. And he’s lost the downward tilt of his head. His beauty is on full display.
I’m not the only one who notices. Two women look up from their shopping, and the man behind the deli counter stares.
Elias is completely oblivious to all of them—but he does see me. He halts.
His lips are parted, his gaze locked. He looks half drunk, almost drugged, but I know he’s not. He’s aroused. He’s figured out, however, how to keep it from showing. His apron hangs flat. But I know what’s happening to his body. I know what’s inside him. I chose it.
I love that he doesn’t know that.
Usually, I approach him. I enter his space. I give him an excuse to focus on me. He has none now, and he’s stuck. So I, half savior, half tormentor, crook my finger at him—and he comes to me.
God, he’s such a good boy. Such a beautiful, obedient boy.
My dick throbs as he approaches. See, this is why I need my role to play. Because what I want is to spread my legs and point between my feet. What I want is to grab his hair as he kneels before me. What I want is to make him suck me here and now.
But I’m the hunter, the stalker, the demon, and I cannot reveal myself. It would spoil the game.
So I hold myself still as Elias approaches. He’s like a fucking ballet dancer, practically floating my way. I point to the chair across from me.
I’m hyperalert as he sits. I hungrily consume every detail: his slight shudder, the way he rocks forward, his slow blink.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt today. I like it. I feel like I’ve put my mark on him already.
He doesn’t say anything. His awkwardness is gone. He’s been stripped down to only himself.
It pisses me off, however, that the guy in the deli is still staring. I’ve done this, not him. This Elias, the real Elias, is mine.
“You’ve been working hard,” I observe. He’s sweaty and not just because of his arousal.
“We were unloading boxes,” he tells me, which I don’t like because who is we? But I can’t ask him that, not in this role.
Instead I ask, “Do you like your job? It seems a little … unfulfilling. For someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
He says that like he doesn’t realize how smart he is, how creative. But I’ve read so many submissions to ForbiddenX and none were written like his. Precise, articulate, outside the box.
I can’t say any of that, of course, so I say nothing. It floats away. Elias can’t focus right now.
I wish I could bend him over this table, bare his ass, and see that plug. I wish I could pull it from him and give him my cock instead. He needs it.
Soon, baby, soon.
I don’t know why I’m calling him that in my head. It’s wrong. It’s an unwanted twist on his role, and on mine. It confuses me. Upsets me.
I need to leave.
I get up from the table. Elias’s eyes linger on my groin, but my compression shorts keep my hard dick from showing.
My control keeps my face from giving anything away.
I have to be in the shadows. Only Elias is in the spotlight.
That’s what he asked for. To be seen. To be hunted. To be, I think, coveted.
Does he know that he’s accomplished it all? Does he know how dangerous that is?
“I have to get back to work,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he replies. His voice is breathy.
“Be careful,” I tell him sharply. He’s too open now.
His attention gathers. He’s trying to see me clearly, to understand, but there’s no way he could ever understand me. He’s too innocent.
Or is he? It was a dark, dark fantasy that he submitted.
He blinks lazily. I want to grab his hair, his jaw, his throat. But all I can do is demand, “Say yes.”
“Yes,” he says, but it doesn’t soothe me. It’s too immediate, too thoughtless. Would he say yes to anybody?
I’m not being fair, I know that. I’ve done this to him, and now I’m upset about it. I don’t even know why. I think it’s that guy at the deli, watching. Or maybe it’s Elias’s obliviousness. At first, I loved that, but now I’m annoyed.
I’m being unreasonable, illogical. I’m pushing the boundaries of my role, of all my roles. I really need to leave.
Somehow, I do.
I get outside. I breathe. I find my control as I walk the route that I’ll use. My mind settles as I think through every possibility, every contingency, as I reduce the world to me and Elias and the game we’re about to play.