Atlas
MY BODY IS ON fire. Soaked in sweat and thoroughly exhausted even after going to bed so early.
As the morning sun filters in through the skylight and the window next to my bed, I run my shaking fingers over the duvet lying under me.
I’m awake. I’m alone. It’s over.
But it’s not… not really. Sometimes, when it’s all said and done, I feel immense relief and mild satisfaction, though I’ll never admit it.
Yet, other times, I am left like this: overheating and drowning in physical sensations that I cannot rid my mind or body of.
Need and desperation take over, and I fear being around others.
I fear them seeing me in this compromising position or taking someone innocent like Julian and making passes at him.
A part of me wishes it would come back, that it would help me relieve more of this tension, but I don’t know how to call on it. I don’t know how to ensure I won’t end up in an even worse condition afterward.
I wouldn’t be able to stomach the guilt of inviting it in, anyway.
So instead, I peer down at my naked, heaving body and begin the very long and tedious task of relieving it myself.
Running a fingertip over one of my hypersensitive, hardened nipples, I hiss loudly in the otherwise silent room. Around the pink nub is the indentation of two sharp canines, and I’m sore from whatever abuse my chest took while in the throes of nightmarish slumber.
Ignoring the mild pain, I tweak said nipple, feeling the deliciously violent streaks of sensation coursing through my veins in response.
Continuing that ministration, I run the fingertips of my other hand down my stomach, across my right hipbone, and onto the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
My cock has long since been hard, aching, and creating a puddle of arousal on my lower stomach. It twitches as my fingertips move closer, anticipating more release.
The amount of clear fluid leaking from my tip eliminates the need to use spit or find a form of lubricant as I wrap my fingers around the base, squeezing as I slowly drag my hand up to run my thumb over the slit.
“O-oh god,” I groan, hearing my own voice bounce off the walls and return to me in a beautiful, sensual melody.
I pump my hand faster—not concerned with any form of buildup—as my fingers, tweaking my nipples in intervals, begin to pinch and twist with more force, more strength.
My entire body is tensed, vibrating against the pure pleasure of the act.
What I wouldn’t give for these hands to belong to someone else. Someone living and breathing and invited in.
Maybe someone like Julian.
I can almost picture it.
His kind brown eyes staring down at me in soft admiration as he twists and pulls at my nipples. His long, thick fingers plunging in and out of my hole.
Playing out the fantasy, I remove my fingers from my chest and collect some of the arousal on my stomach, using it as lube as I slide my middle finger into my entrance.
I’m panting, sweating against the duvet as I imagine it. His soft, deep voice whispering obscene things in my ear, his hot breath against my face. Maybe he’d pull out his own dick and shove it into me, his face contorted with lust and the realization that he’s finally fucking me.
Julian wants to fuck me, right?
I slide in two more fingers at once, imagining them to be something much bigger, warmer, and more fulfilling.
“F-fuck! Ohmygod.” My voice ends on a whine, both hands moving faster in my desperation, my fingers curling and scraping my walls in an attempt to find my prostate.
Would Julian be gentle, or would he slam into me relentlessly? What form of pleasure does he dish out to his lovers? Is he even into men?
With the way he was eyeing my ass that night he dressed me, I’d guess yes.
I want to see it, his face as he’s overcome with pleasure. I want to smell him; what his musk smells like when he’s sweaty and turned on, unable to control himself. I would do anything to be the reason that the precious professionalism and self-control he portrays snap.
What does his skin taste like? His come?
My fingers curl just right, slamming into my prostate as I thrust into myself. A loud moan echoes against the walls of my bedroom, and the sound spurs me on.
A few drags of my fingertips combined with a few pumps of my aching cock, and I’m climaxing.
“Yes, yes, oh fuck, yes,” I cry, my hips lifting from the bed as my release spurts out all over my stomach and chest.
My hand grips my leaking cock tighter, my fingers nailing my prostate, and I milk myself thoroughly.
And as I come down, with my own harsh panting filling the space around me, I remove my hands and stare at the mess I’ve made.
Then, I hear footsteps on the stairs outside my door.
“Young Master Atlas?” Hannah calls, her voice small and concerned. “Would you like me to bring you breakfast?”
“N-no, thank you,” I respond, my voice choked with tears.
What did she hear? I feel revolted. I feel weak for giving in to the sickness that courses through me.
It’s one thing to suffer through it and another to feel the pleasure of it. I’m uncertain as to when most of the fear turned into desire, but I hate myself for it all the same.
Disgusting, sweet little thing, I think.
I’m such a temptress, a dirty desire, even to myself.
“Okay,” Hannah says softly. “Call if you need me.”
I hear her footsteps retreat, and the door at the base of the stairs close in the distance.
I stay this way for two more days and three more nights, suffering through my dreams and masturbating all day to fight off the heatstroke of desire.
I only allow Hannah to leave food at my doorstep, opening it once I hear her depart. Momma and Papa were smart to add on an en suite bathroom up here long before I was diagnosed.
It’s a half-conscious series of days, where I am stuck in an endless cycle that exhausts my mind and body.
As the third day finally rolls around, I wake up to the morning sun, and my skin only feels as hot as it does on a good day. As if I have a fever.
I don’t feel as rested as I did before the beginning of my flare-up, but the uncontrollable desire has simmered to a mild need, and I feel as if I can be in the presence of others again.
I miss my family. I want to see Julian.
So I take a long shower, where I wash myself thoroughly, ridding my body of the sins I’ve committed. Then I dress in a pair of charcoal gray slacks and a sheer, white, flowy top. My dress shoes shine as I descend the steps of the west tower for the first time in days.
My curls are damp from my shower, and my skin is paler than it was when this flare-up started.
As I open the door that leads into Hall W4, I spot Atticus sitting against the wall, his head tilted back to rest against the wallpaper. He looks as if he’s barely slept, his straight brown hair ruffled and his black slacks wrinkled.
When I close the door, alerting him of my presence, he jumps up. Wide hazel eyes roam over every inch of me, and I can see the panic and concern on his features.
“Atty,” he breathes. “Are you okay? Was it bad? I haven’t heard from you or seen you in days.”
I smile, and it comes easily in the face of a family member I’ve missed so much, so I nod.
“Yes, Atticus,” I tell him. “I’m better now. It was… bad, sure, but it’s over.”
A moment later, I’m wrapped up in his arms, and he’s breathing in the smell of my hair.
“You had me worried sick. Come, let’s pray.” Atticus grabs my hand, dragging me toward the west staircase so we can descend to the first story.
He always does this. After a particularly bad flare-up, he’ll go with me to the chapel, and we’ll fall to our knees and pray to God to give me relief, to end my suffering.
Or, rather, he prays for that. I pray for forgiveness. For the Lord not to condemn me to hell for taking an ounce of sick pleasure from my condition.
As we enter the chapel, we walk through the rows of pews, and I kneel before the large cross that displays Jesus Christ behind the podium at which our hired priest stands when he’s called upon.
Staring at the Holy Spirit’s crestfallen face, I wait for Atticus to finish lighting the candles on the low table to our right. Then, he joins me in kneeling, and we put our hands together and bow our heads.
Dear Lord, please forgive me for my weak disposition. Grant me mercy in the face of my misfortune and allow me to repent for my own sick desires. I’m sorry, amen.
I repeat the rehearsed prayer, the one I crafted a few months after my eighteenth birthday. Atticus mutters to himself softly, and I feel a warm ache in my chest at his dedication to me and my healing.
He truly is a wonderful brother.
After a few minutes, Atticus sighs. “Alright, Atty. I think that’s good. Want to watch a movie with me?”
I raise my head to look at him, so I catch his gentle smile and his loving eyes as they peer down at me. He stands.
“No, thank you. I’d like to pray some more,” I reply, pressing my hands tighter together so he won’t see them shake.
“Sure, darling,” he says softly. “Find me later?”
I nod, and Atticus places a chaste kiss on the top of my head before he exits the chapel in sure, steady strides.
Sometimes, I wish I were more like him. Sometimes I wish I were him. But if I became Atticus, Atticus would have to become me, and I wouldn’t wish this on him in a million years.
Once I’m sure he’s left the room, I lower my head once again.
Dear Lord, please forgive me for my weak disposition. Grant me mercy in the face of—
“Young Master Atlas?”
My eyes shoot open, but I do not move. I can feel Julian approaching, his feet thudding against the soft carpet laid between the rows of pews.
I am filled with an unfamiliar anxiety.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
My temperature spikes, my heart rate picking up at just the sound of his voice, his nearing presence. Shit, not in the chapel!
“Uh, I’m praying,” I answer softly, my eyes trained on my bent knees, my hands that are going white under the pressure I’m applying to keep them pressed together so tightly.
“What are you praying for?” His voice is so soft, so concerned that I feel the urge to cry.