Eighteen #3
The last thing I want happening is me passing out in the barn with him, and fuck am I tired.
I could push through it a little longer, though.
The same way he’s pushing through his discomfort for me.
Because I told him he needs to. He’s doing it more for himself than me, though.
Why does that seem like something that’s harder to convince him to do?
Where’s the selfish asshole I grew up with?
He’s here still. I just know he is. He’ll come out eventually. He always does in some way. Being weak and broken usually makes people show more of who they are. Desperation makes even the best people show their worst side.
I pluck a tube of Neosporin from my pocket, smearing some all over his scratches and bumps under the metal cuff.
He hisses, flexing his leg out. “Is it time yet?”
“Yeah. It’s time.”
“Good,” he pants. “I can’t wait any longer. I keep trying to think of other things but . . . but—”
“Hey.” I put the Neosporin back in my pocket and swipe at his tears with the back of my clean hand. “You did good. So, so good.”
He shudders and I rub at his cheek again, my lips twitching to kiss the rest of the wetness on his eyes away.
I’ve thought about how good his pleasure tastes, and I bet his pain tastes just as delicious.
I retract my hand and stand all the way up, grabbing the bucket.
I reach into my bag and pull out a toilet seat, lifting him from the floor as soon as I have it positioned the way I want it.
I lower his bottom to the soft plastic, and he doesn’t wait for me to tell him to push. He relaxes his stomach, releasing his bowels into the bucket. I stand back, and he reaches for me when I do, his hand grabbing mine as he makes a disgruntled sound. “Don’t leave me. I don’t want to fall.”
“I’m here. I’ll keep you steady,” I say, switching hands so I can stand behind him while he squeezes my fingers.
He clamps his teeth down, folding his stomach, and his muscles tense as more waste hits the plastic. I focus more on his moaning and heavy breathing after that. Then he looks up at me with bloodshot eyes and flushed skin. “I’m sorry. That . . . I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” I rub the back of his hand, leaning down.
“I . . . that . . . no one is supposed to see me like this.”
“See you like what?”
“I . . . I think I need another bath.”
“How about we take care of that in the house? It’ll be faster and easier. More comfortable for you too.”
His eyes widen. “In a bath tub?”
Fuck, what am I doing? It was never in my plans to bring him into the house.
My mom is gone for the rest of the week, so it’ll only be us, but still .
. . It’s risky. Someone could see us. He could somehow get the upper hand over me.
He holds his breath, waiting for my answer, and I smile behind the mask.
“Yeah. In a tub. Maybe full of bubbles too.”
The muscle in his throat jumps. “I haven’t had a bubble bath since I was on my own in a hotel in California. The tub was so small I couldn’t move much. Probably wasn’t very clean either.” His nose wrinkles. “It felt really good, though.”
“Hopefully it feels good this time too.”
“Are we going there now?” His eyes grow heavy.
“Yeah. You think you can stand?” He tries and his knees buckle. I catch him, reaching down to grab the roll of toilet paper behind me.
“I guess not. You can wash me here. It’s okay.” His face falls and it makes me uneasy.
“No. I said you were getting a bubble bath, so that’s what you’ll get.”
His eyes brighten, opening up more. “But I can’t walk.”
“I can carry you there. It won’t be too much of a problem, but you will have to hold on to me tightly when we go down the ladder. We’ll make it work, though.” I look down at my hand and his trembling legs. “Can you wipe yourself?”
He reaches for the toilet paper in my hand and his fingers miss it, swiping at the air. I place it in his hand and he drops it while trying to tear off five squares. “I . . . I think . . .” His face reddens. “I can’t believe I’m going to ask for this.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.” I pick up the toilet paper and he bends forward as I get him clean.
He doesn’t look at me, keeping his eyes shut as I throw everything away and take the cuff off him.
After sliding the key back into the bottom of my shoe, I slip a bandana over his eyes, using it as a makeshift blindfold.
I tie it tightly at the back of his head and lift him into my arms.
When we get to the ladder, he buries his face in my nape, wrapping his legs tightly around me with his arms nearly choking my neck as I bring us down each step.
I lower one foot to the ground, balancing myself before setting down the other, and then proceed toward the double doors, happy I didn’t close them behind me.
I don’t lock them this time either, leaving them partially closed.
He’s not going to be back in there for a while, so there’s no point.
He’s going into the house with me, and after making sure the blindfold is tightly around his eyes, a new worry assaults me.
What if I don’t want to bring him back where I’m supposed to?