Page 5 of Under Your Care

“It’s torn down now, but I’ll never forget the swirly patterns on the wood ceiling or the spider that lived in the top right-hand corner. It’s like the first time is burned into my memory. It hurt so fucking badly. I tore and instead of panicking about my injury, I freaked out about hiding the blood on my underwear from my mom. He– He told me that she’d throw me out for being a faggot. After the first time, he started recording ourgamesand sending the videos to his friends. I was terrified of my parents finding out. I thought that I would be in trouble. I–”

A wounded sound left my mouth. My nails made indents in Dr. Cohen’s couch as I forced myself to continue talking.

“Right before his twenty-second birthday, he moved to another state for a job. My parents had caught on that something was wrong before then, but they never thought it could be something like that. I was fourteen when I finally told the therapist I was seeing at the time about being hurt by someone. I never told anyone that it was Tate. My parents think it was one time, by a mysterious stranger who was passing through town. Some transient man who attacked their child. I just… Why would I tell them now? It’s been so long and sure, I have to deal with Tate’s harassment a few times a year, but that’s doable. But, sometimes I worry that the videos are still out there somewhere.”

Attempting not to throw up, I curled my legs onto the couch and heldmy knees to my chest with my head down. The room was dead silent for a couple of minutes. I could feel the weight of his stare on me as I tried my best to take in big gulps of air.

“Lane, there is nothing I could say right now that could even begin to express how I feel listening to your story. Thank you for pushing yourself to tell me. My apologies in this situation are pointless, but still - I am so, so sorry, Lane. You don’t have to excuse decisions you made while trying to survive. How were you - a young child - supposed to know what to do in that situation? In no way are you complicit in his abuse. You did notletit happen, sweet boy.”

He took a breath, seemingly trying to calm himself down. Meanwhile, my mind froze at the praise. I thought about asking him why he would call me that, but I was too emotionally and physically exhausted to pose the question. “You are so incredibly strong for being able to tell me all of that.”

Before I knew it, the appointment was over and I was being escorted outside by Dr. Cohen. “Lane, is it okay if I give you a hug? I completely understand if you don’t want that, but I’d like to offer you a small piece of comfort. You did so well. Youaredoing so well.”

“Yes, I think I would like a hug. Thank you for asking first though,” I murmured, too tired to find an issue with him touching me. His eyes lit up, almost appearing golden from the setting sun’s glow. He smiled as he wrapped his arms around me. Maybe I had just been touch starved for too long, but I swore that Dr. Cohen’s hug felt unparalleled to anything I had felt before. His arms were thick and corded, and I could feel the strength in them as he hugged me. I felt sheltered in his embrace. I rested my forehead on his chest for just a moment, soaking in his warmth. Somehow, he felt like home.

While I was tucked into his chest, Dr. Cohen whispered into my hair, “You are profound.”

As he let me go, he offered me a small smile and a gentle pat on my shoulder. We said our goodbyes and he walked back into the building, leaving me alone with my thoughts on the cement sidewalk.

Chapter 4

Lane

It’d been a few days since our session, and I couldn’t help but replay the hug over and over. I tried telling myself, “you are profound,” but it didn't give the same effect as it had when Dr. Cohen said it. I’d never once had a therapist hug me. I wasn’t sure if it was technically allowed or not. I knew he had pure intentions, so I decided not to think too much into it. Even if he happened to be gay, there was no way a therapist would encourage an unethical relationship.

I was also, well, me. Someone like him wouldn’t want a femme, college student of a twink with as much emotional baggage as I had. Even so, a boy could dream. Or fantasize… No, definitely not. That would be wrong on so many levels. Still, I felt heat settling low in my stomach. As my lounge pants began to tent, I reasoned with myself that maybe I could fantasize about someonelikehim, but who’snothim.

I made myself comfortable on my bed and grabbed the lube I kept in the top drawer of my nightstand. Clicking open the cap, I poured some into my palm and shimmied my lounge pants down just a bit so that my cock sprung free, glistening with my arousal.

When I wrapped my thin hand around the base, not even the swollentip poked out from the top of my fist. I began thrusting in and out of my slicked-up fist, every once in a while using my pointer finger and thumb to rub the precum around the head of my penis. I bit down on my bottom lip in an attempt to keep my moans from coming out. As my thighs began to tremble and I sped up my thrusts, I imagined that a manlikeDr. Cohen was the one pleasuring me. I bit down even harder on my lip - causing the skin to almost break - as I felt my balls drawing up. I really didn’t mean to, but I suddenly thought back to when Dr. Cohen called me “sweet boy.” Before I realized what was happening, my back arched off the mattress and my cum splattered across my bare chest.

Fuck.

???

The day before my second session with Dr. Cohen, I woke up feeling off. Sure, I had never been a morning person before, but this felt different than my typical morning grumpiness. I rolled over to grab my phone from the nightstand and froze.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What the actual fuck?

My entire body trembled in terror as I stared at the single red tulip sitting on top of the stack of books on my nightstand. Chloe was perched on the pillow next to me - alive, thank God - and lazily licking one of her front paws. The sight helped calm me down, albeit not all the way. I very quietly slid my legs off the side of my bed and was shocked to see that the book at the very top of the stack wasn’t mine. I carefully poked the tulip and suspiciously picked it up when nothing happened. It was pretty. It could have been left by a serial killer as a sign that I’m next, but I couldn’t deny it was a nice flower. I gently placed the tulip on the nightstand, next to the books. Picking up theintruder from my pile, I sat back down on the edge of my bed.

The Victorian Flower Language: A Guide.

I immediately knew what I was supposed to do, but I was fucking terrified to do it. What if I looked up tulips in the book and it said that it meant, “I’m going to murder you,” or something similar?

Fuck.

Okay, I could do this.

I could be brave.

“Please don’t be something bad, please don’t be something bad,” I shakily repeated, a bead of sweat forming on my brow, while opening the book and flipping through.

I found the tulip section, and because apparently different colored tulips have different meanings, I slid my finger down the page to find “tulip, red.” It took a second for me to work up the courage to read the meaning. And once I did, I was left confused, still frightened, but more dumbfounded than anything.

Tulip, Red: Perfect love, passion, declaration of love, rebirth, wealth.

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