Page 62 of By the Pint

DimaMosquito

P.T.O. for instructions on blocking your thoughts.

The note had been slipped under my door on my return from the gym. I read it four times, and the instructions, eight. Then I took a shower and replayed everything that had happened that morning.

The sound of Dima’s orgasm echoed through my head over and over. It would forever be imprinted on my brain, and was heading straight to the top of my go-to bank images—noises? I thought of the note.Drag you back as my prisoner and keep you forever, and I had to jerk off again. Why was that so fucking sexy?

Instructions for thought blocking:

Just don’t let your thoughts leave the locker.

That was all that was written. Comprehensive, right?

I rang him on the guest phone for clarification.

“Hey,” he said, in a voice that made me thankful I was sitting down. “What are you wearing?”

Only a towel, as it went, but he didn’t need to know that. “We’re not playing this game again.”

“Okay, sure,” he said, resigned and a little sulky.

“What does it mean, don’t let my thoughts leave the locker?”

“Uh, so like, imagine the locker is a big net, but without holes, a mind-bag, if you will.”

“Right …”

“And it covers everything, all your thoughts, like they get produced in that bag, and it stays inside the locker, and only the ones you want me or Killian to see can slip through into the locker room. Get it?”

“Yeah, not really. What exactly am I meant to be doing? What is this bag like? Do you mean a literal bag? Can you show me how?”

“Will you stop thinking about my dick and my fingers wrapped around yours?”

“Um … It’s not … Probably not,” I admitted. It didn’t seem to be something I had a lot of control over.

“Then I’ll wait until you can hide the thoughts from me. Okay, now get practicing because I miss your face.” Then he hung up the phone again.

It took the better part of three days for me to finally grasp the concept. In that time, I visited the gym, the on-site restaurant, the spa. Nothing required payment. Every time I tried to pay for something, I was waved away.

I spoke to Killian through his scrying mirror every day. Mostly to make sure the house was still standing, but also to update him on the mission.

“Have you penetrated his mind?” Killian asked, he sounded distracted again, or perhaps bored.

“No, not yet.” I didn’t want to admit to my master that Dima had been teaching me to close off mine.

“So, you’ve not fucked him either? I don’t get it, you’ve been there for weeks. You’re just his type. That man has iron will power.”

I made to comment on the iron will power thing because it was simply inaccurate, but another thought bounced around in my head.You’re just his type.

Just his type.

Something seemed off about his phrasing. Off, and deliberate.

“Well, everything is fine here!” Killian said, in a way that suggested the polar opposite. “You don’t need to worry about the house or the furniture. Especially not the chesterfield in the library.”

“Okaaay.” I ironed the wrinkles from my forehead with my fingers. One vampire problem at a time. I hung up the scrying line and tried to focus on this whole mind-bag deal.

Was it an actual bag? Like a supermarket plastic shopping bag? Or a rucksack? Or a holdall? Or was I being facetious? Or was Dima, because that would be super on brandfor him? Was it more metaphorical? I tried creating all sorts of mind-bags before I decided it was, indeed, a figure of speech, and Dima was right. There really wasn’t a decent way to explain it all. It was just there.

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